


My Keeper

by Naoe



Series: GRIMM Fates [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, BAMF!Cas, BAMF!Dean, Circles of Hell, Drug Abuse, F/M, GRIMM TV SHOW VERSE, Grimm!Bobby, Grimm!Dean, Grimm!Dean Winchester, Grimm!John Winchester, Grimm!Mary Winchester, Grimm!Sam Winchester, Hell, I'll add these as I go, M/M, Masturbation in Shower, Minor Character Death, One True Pairing, Pie, SPN characters - Freeform, Slow Build, True Love, True Mates, Violence, Wing Kink, Wings, You don't have to watch GRIMM, Young Love, angel!cas - Freeform, spn au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-02-04 18:26:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 73,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1788835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naoe/pseuds/Naoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam has run away under Dean's watch, and John is pissed. Unable to handle John's anger anymore, Dean tries to walk away only to feel a pull of a carnival and of something greater within. Only then does he fall into the trap of destiny and a swirl of events surrounding a fallen angel and the machinations of the Verrat government.</p><p>This is set in the world of GRIMM, where the creatures are trying to live in harmony with humans for the most part, and the people who keep creatures in line and stop the violence are called "Grimms." </p><p>You don't have to know the GRIMM TV show to read this, as there are notes to help with any terms, most of which have to do with creatures. Also, most of the characters from GRIMM will not be making an appearance. Well, probably.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Last Grimm Standing

**Author's Note:**

> To be truthful, I love GRIMM almost almost as much as Supernatural. Okay, that's a lie. But I do like it. The thing I like most is that the Hunters (AKA: Grimms) are actually supernatural themselves, with superhuman strength, hearing, smell, and vision. Like true genetic superiors (e.g., Captain America), but strictly for killing Wesen. I also really like that the Wesen (creatures) in the GRIMM world are trying to live peacefully, instead of always being against humanity all the time. I like that quite a bit, although the Grimms have similar mentalities about Wesen as Hunters in SPN. But, currently, there are no angels or demons in the GRIMM world. But...what if there were? This was inspired by the GRIMM episode S3 E16, The Show Must Go On, about a Wesen carnival.
> 
> There'll be END NOTES and a BESTIARY at the end of each chapter in case people don't know what I'm talking about. Please contact me if I miss something!!
> 
> Grimm: Hunters in the GRIMM world with supernatural senses, reflexes, and other abilities. Generally ruthless about killing Wesen and are the "boogey men" of the GRIMM world creatures. Recognizable by Wesen by their eyes: they can "see" the Wesen for what they actually are.

It must have been 100 degrees Fahrenheit outside. Dean felt he ought to be sweating, but the desert air pulled the water right out of him without mercy. It left him panting and dry as he walked along the quickly disappearing street of the wide spot in the road where his Dad had just left him after he tried to defend Sammy's actions.

When he first realized Sam was missing, Dean panicked. He tried all the methods that he knew to look for him, but it was no good. Just when he started to think Sam might actually be dead somewhere he'd never find, John returned, a week later, and he was furious.  

He tried to reason with John, _Sam just needs time, some space. He's a smart kid._ But John heard none of it and, after yelling at Dean for a good ten minutes about responsibility and what he had expected out of his oldest son, he had snapped out between tight lips, "Get in the fucking car. We're going to find your fourteen-year-old brother that you can't even keep an eye on. I can't believe you, Dean."

It was the fourth day on the road, following the trail from New Jersey to Arizona that Dean had finally had it with John's insults about his ability to handle one little kid.

"I'm sorry, Dad! I didn't realize he was gone until it was too late! He just disappeared!"

In the dim 70's-motif motel room, all dark paneling and rusty orange shag carpet, John narrowed his eyes at him, the familiar anger in them cold and disapproving. 

"I gave you one job. I told you to keep an eye on your brother. He's fourteen, Dean. How is he going to fend for himself when he can't even drive? If you hadn't..." His eyes got even colder and his lips tightened with controlled rage. He leaned into Dean's personal space, his face so close to Dean's that he could smell the coffee from breakfast on his breath. "If you hadn't been fucking off, god knows where, doing god knows what, your brother wouldn't have been able to take off. This is your fault. I didn't raise you to slack off like that."

The hissed words stabbed Dean hard, and he fought back his urge to scream and rage against his father. Instead, he clenched his fists and stared at the ground, unwelcome tears welling up regardless of his will.

"I can smell it, Dean," John said, his face still too close, the derision in his voice grinding into Dean's ears. "The anger, the guilt.... Do you think that's going to find your little brother?"

Unthinkingly, Dean lashed out, but John caught the flying fist easily and landed a hard slap across his face that flattened Dean onto the motel floor.  As Dean laid there trying to gather his pride, John snapped, "I'm loading the car. You have five minutes and then I'm leaving you here."

_Five minutes,_ Dean thought, his pride in shreds. _That's an eternity on this fucking floor._

With his face pressed against it, he could see and smell the shag carpet had seen better days, and it was very unpleasant up-close. He sat up, swiped at his eyes and nose with his sleeve, and gingerly touched his left cheek. It was swollen already and sore to the touch. _Ugh, if I end up with a shiner_ , he thought angrily.

_ It's not fair. God damn it. It's NOT fair. I didn't drive Sam away with all the fighting, and the demands! I didn't make him leave school and have this fucking life!  That kid just wants a normal life! Who the hell wants to be a Grimm? _

Unable to deal with his father, he grabbed his pack off the grungy bed and just walked away from the motel, not even looking back. He doubted his Dad would come looking for him.

And sure enough, he didn't.

 


	2. Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein, it's too damn hot, but Dean cannot ignore the pull of the carnival, has weird feelings, and needs $10 dollars. Not necessarily in that order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally one very long chapter, but I broke it up because of reasons. Mostly the lack of beta reasons, you see. And I technically have a few chapters written, but I'm trying to space it out because, once I get to the end of what I've already written, I'm unsure when I'll be able to write more. YAY! School!
> 
> Also, again, this is all completely unbeta'd so... sorry.
> 
> Please leave any suggestions or comments. I always need as much help as humanly possible!!

Having avoided meeting his father in the parking lot by waiting until he went to turn in the room key, Dean finally wandered into the "last chance" gas station and convenience store on the edge of town. He stocked up on two huge bottles of water and an armful of Hostess Cherry Pies. They weren't very tasty, but they were pies. He also bought two frozen burritos he was sure would defrost in his bag and probably partially cook by the time he was ready to eat them. Hopefully he could hitch back to Bobby's place, regroup and start over. That is, if his dad didn't find Sam first and beat the shit out of him before that…

_Shit. I don’t even know what to hope for… that he gets away from the old man, or if the old man finds his punk ass…_

He started walking towards the interstate, a good five miles from the town, when he noticed a distant blurry redness in the distance. As he continued to walk, it got clearer and less hazy from the heat: it was a set of tents and some carnival rides. A good-sized carnival had set up close to town, and, despite the brutal heat, they were doing brisk business. This wasn't that much of a surprise; Dean reckoned the locals were dying for entertainment, and was momentarily thankful that he had never been stuck in a shit town like this.

It was just then when he thought he heard something. It was faint, like a whisper of his name. It brushed by his ear, like a faint gust of familiar breath.

It dragged his gaze back to the carnival, and he suddenly had an urge to visit it. He paused and stared at it, taking a soothing swig from one of the water bottles. The blood-red tents glowed ominously on the desert sand. Dean took another pull, tucked away the bottle, and strode purposely toward the carnival. _Ah, what the hell? I'm in no rush. That little shit got away from me for a week and a half, and, even if I get back to Bobby’s and try to track him from there, odds are the old man will have already found him and locked him in the Impala’s trunk…_

No, he really wasn't sure what he was hoping for on that front.

From closer up, Dean could tell that not just the townspeople were partaking of the festivities; obviously people from the surrounding area had come to enjoy the brief moment's entertainment. The carnival was almost uncomfortably packed with screaming kids, loud teenagers, and fussy parents.

He inwardly cringed when he heard the entrance fee was $10, and considered walking back to the road, when that brief sound tugged at him again. It was a bit stronger this time and he could almost hear what they were saying. He reluctantly checked what was left of his cash after the convenience store, and was not surprised that it was only $15.

He handed over the $10 with serious sorrow to the wall-eyed guy in the bowler hat manning the ticket booth, and snatched the ticket out of the guy's hand. _Ugh, it better be a hot babe at the end of this rainbow!_

Dean wandered around a bit to get an idea of what the lay of the land was like: the rides were to the far left; the food trucks were to the middle near the games; and there were smaller tents with a fortune teller and small events and exhibits on the right. Just past the tents, there was a parking lot that was really just dirt and more dirt. The haze from the heat just radiated off the cars, and Dean quickly wandered back to the minimal shade of the tents. 

He instinctively took to the right of the main entrance and found himself in front of a mid-sized tent with a banner across it that read, "FANTASMIQUE CREATURES" in huge gold and black letters. It sat near center of the attraction tents, just catty-corner to the smaller, but no less garish, fortune teller’s tent that was ridiculously popular for some reason.

"Which douche came up with that?" He grumbled, looking at the entrance way banner. Next to the entry, a small ticket booth was set up, but no one was in it. The next show wasn't until 7pm, after the sun went down, and the entry fee was another whooping $10 he didn't have. He strolled around the tent, and eyed the banners that hung off the sides and near the crowded main-way. “Dragons Come to Life,” “Beauty Becomes Beast,” “Mysterious Wolf-Man,” and “Touch A Piece of Heaven and Hell” were posted with odd drawings of a half-beasts and angels with demons. After canvassing the joint, Dean shrugged. Nothing but civilians walking around, trying to stay cool and have dubious fun with the smaller tent denizens. He smiled broadly, and boldly strolled in like he was supposed to  be there, knowing confidence was 90% of anything.

The interior was extremely stuffy and hot despite the shade. He could see why they waited until the sun went down to do the show.

The tent had ten benches set out around a stage. There were two huge canvas-covered box things set at the sides of the stage that Dean bet were cages. "What the hell is going on here," he murmured, putting his bag down on one of the benches.

There was a low growl and laughter from the left, but something about the other cage, on the right of the stage, caught his attention. It pulled at him, and he found himself in front of the covered cage, nervous. Then, that same small gust of wind touched him, brushing his cheek and jaw, calling him. Swallowing hard, he pulled back the curtain with a sharp twitch of his hand. A mostly naked young man squatted in the dead center of the cage, curled in a ball. He was wearing what looked like a diaper.

 _What the fuck?_ Dean leaned in and whispered, "Hello?"

The young man slowly raised his head and a shock jolted Dean's system: the bluest and most beautiful set of eyes looked into him intently. They glowed in the semi-darkness of the tent, and Dean's breath caught in his throat. His head swam and he gripped the bars of the cage with the sudden dizziness.

The man cocked his head slightly to the left, like a listening bird, and whispered hoarsely, "Y-you."

His voice was deeper, raspier than Dean anticipated, as if he hadn't used it in a long time, and Dean felt daunted. Hating the feeling, he boldly asked, "Who are you?"

The bravado faded quickly when the man grimaced in pain and then whimpered into knees, leaving Dean feeling almost heartbroken that those eyes had pulled away.

He rattled the bars, hissing faintly at the pain in his palms when something sliced his skin like a paper cut. He leaned in further, stage-whispering, "Hey, hey! Why are you in this cage! Who are you?"

"I believe you're going to have to pay for that privilege," said a low voice, full of suppressed anger behind Dean.

Dean spun around, surprised, to face the voice's owner. A large man with heavy brows and intense, angry eyes glared at him. He was dressed in dark clothes and he would have blended into the shadows, if not for those golden eyes.

Dean snapped the curtains close and stepped away from them, hands in the air. "Sorry, man. I was just curious."

The man worked to hitch a diplomatic smile on his face, and crossed his arms across his broad chest. He easily had 50 pounds of muscle on Dean, who was no lightweight, but no stocky, muscle-bound dude either. "I see." The man pursed his lips and his smile slid a bit as he looked like he was trying to stay calm. "I think you've seen enough. If you want to see more, I suggest you come back later and pay the admission price for a seat."

Dean grinned his shiniest, shit-eating grin and shrugged. "I'll do that!" He grabbed up his bag, and, still grinning, winked at the guy as he turned to walk out. On his way out, however, his face shifted to a predatory mask.

There was around three hours before night set. The big thing now was he was going to have to find $10 to get back inside the tent.

He had to know who that guy was and why was he trapped in a cage. There were no obvious reasons. Dean had questions, and he was damned if he didn't find some answers. But first things first: where was he going to get $10?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean finds $10 and shit happens. 
> 
> Also, next chapter is rather GRIMM canon, but it's really the only one. Look for a Bestiary at the end if you don't know what some terms mean.


	3. No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Dean gets $10, does a semi-good deed, and eats a burrito.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It behooves me to note that this was the second half of the last chapter, which is why it's so short.
> 
> It also behooves me to say that I am a sarcastic shit, and my writing like this (Wherein/behooves) should not be taken seriously. 
> 
> Trigger warning: There is some minor alcohol/light drug abuse in here, but nothing serious, and not by a major character. (Yet.)
> 
> I should also add that there's a lot of build-up to this story, but there will be sex. Just... more build-up because I'm setting up a 'Verse. My apologies.
> 
> Bestiary and Definitions at end.

 

> _"If you do one good deed your reward usually is to be set to do another and harder and better one."_ C.S. Lewis, The Horse and His Boy
> 
> _"Know you not that a good man does nothing for appearance sake, but for the sake of having done right?"_ Epictetus

Dean wandered around a bit, watching folks, but there really was no place to grift. The carnies were watching everything carefully and Dean could tell the games were rigged.

He started watching the crowd from under the abandoned aluminum bleachers that were set up, but way too hot to sit on. They probably worked in places where the sun wasn't quite so close to the surface of the earth. In Arizona, they were just wide-open, Easy-Bake Ovens for human asses. He made use of that fact by hiding under them, and setting his burritos on top. They had already defrosted, and he was sure fifteen minutes in the sun would warm them enough to eat. The aluminum might have been cheap and easy to carry, but it was hot as hell up on top. 

Scanning the crowd, there were a lot of parents and kids, but the parents were watchful of strangers and not good choices, even with kids to distract them. Besides, he didn't want to steal some kid’s cotton candy money.

Then he saw them.

In his eighteen years of life, Dean had been to over 30 schools. He recognized cliques really quickly and pegged the swaggering crowd of drunk and high kids swarming towards the back tents instantly: the rich kids.

They were wearing branded clothing that was made to look worn out. They had on glittering branded sunglasses and real gold jewelry. Their watches were more expensive than his entire wardrobe, for fuck’s sake. One of the douches was even wearing a knitted beanie in the unbearable heat. It was ridiculous.

_I mean, seriously, who fucking wears a beanie in 100 degree heat?_

He reached up from his position in the minimal shade beneath the bleachers to grab his already hot burrito, and he stripped it open as he watched them.

Drunk and high, they clung to each a lot and giggled over everything. Not a single one of them was being watchful, and he was willing to be they were counting on their parents to get them out of jail if the cops caught them.

 _God damn amateurs_ , he thought, shoving the last bite of burrito into his mouth. He took a swig of water, rinsed out his mouth, and wiped his mouth with his arm. _They're going to regret it._

He couldn't help it. He grinned.

He set himself to closely observe the group, noting that Mr. Beanie was looking particularly ill and starting to hang back a bit. He was willing to bet it would be the combination of heat, pot, and the bottle of Jägermeister the dumbass kept slipping out of his Sean Jean messenger bag to sip on.  Just watching him do it was making Dean feel ill, having had a Jäger hangover once before.

_Never again. Damn amateur. Hope his head doesn't implode._

While the others piled into the Fortune Teller's tent ( _Jesus fuck, were they all circus clowns? That tent looks small!_ ), Mr. Beanie tried to be discreet and slipped (that is, hobbled) off behind the Porta-potties and puked like he was going to die. Dean had followed him and watched him collapse unnoticed into a puddle of shame, regurgitated Jäger, and what looked like carnival nachos.

_Bad combo, bro._

"Aw, man," he muttered, crouching near the passed out teen, and wrinkling his nose at the stench, "that reeks."

Grinning like a lucky five-year old, Dean fished out the unconscious guy's wallet and found four twenties, a ten, and six ones. He eyed the name on the driver's license and gave a low whistle. "Well, Joseph Alexander Pines... Sucks to be you."

He tucked away the cash, pulled the guy out of the gross mess, and made him drink some water. "And let this be lesson to you," he chuckled, leaving the half bottle with Joseph, "Wearing a beanie in the desert is a douchebag move."

Just to make sure he didn't die in his own vomit, Dean also fished out the guy's phone and called 911, dropping it on the guy's lap as he left.

_Thanks for the cash, buddy. Learn your lesson and don't overheat._

He slipped away just in time, as the guy's buddies came back looking for him really loudly. He made his way back to the bleachers where he had stowed his bag and snatched up his other now-cooked burrito off the top of the unbearably hot seats.

He chewed and waited, impatient for night to fall. As he waited, he thought about the blue-eyed man in the cage.

As a Grimm, Dean was used to a lot of different Wesen. He had helped his Dad kill _Fuschbau_ and _Blutbaden_ , he had even helped take down the Reapers who had chased them down. But this... This was something else. When he had gripped the bars, it felt like something had been carved into the metal. His hands were lightly cut on his fingers and palms. Probably some sort of binding spell. But...for a Wesen?

The other thing was the guy's eyes: they didn't glow with some sort of monster hiding inside, but with something bigger, something Dean has never seen before. Now, he sort of wished his father was around to talk to about the random guy in what had looked like a diaper. _What the fuck was that about?_

Dean tried to pull more details out of his head, but those eyes kept him occupied. He didn't even know if he was tall or short, or if he was thin or chubby. He realized he vaguely remembered dark hair and a beautiful face, but that was all. Just a pair of electric eyes and possibly some dark hair, in a diaper. That had never happened before.

In the lottery of life, Dean had scored early and turned in his V-card as soon as he could. He had had girls hitting on him from as early as ten but he didn't get a chance to really have sex until he was 14 and the girl was a senior while he was a freshman. If he was honest, he would admit to occasionally feeling attracted to a guy, but never really bothered to explore it. So, really, in his girl-filled world, this was something absolutely new. Even so, he had never had such an instant connection with anyone, and especially not with a guy.

_Well, if he is a guy…_

“One problem at a time, Winchester,” he breathed out. He ripped into his burrito and decided he couldn't do much more until he actually found out more. This sort of running in mental circles was more Sammy’s game than his.

_God I hope that little shit is alive and okay… damn it._

Whatever this was, whatever had called him and forced him to find that guy, it better wrap up fucking fast because he had a little brother to find and strangle...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IF I MISS ANYTHING, PLEASE TELL ME:
> 
> Wesen: Creatures that look like humans, but are not. They have supernatural abilities associated with their "creature" such as superhuman strength and so on.
> 
> Woge: When Wesen feel threatened or need to prove to other Wesen that they are simpatico, they Woge, or shift into their inner selves. Unless they want humans to see it (or they are startled/frightened into losing control of it), when they woge, only other Wesen and Grimms can see them as what they really are.
> 
> Grimm: Hunters in the GRIMM world with supernatural senses, reflexes, and other abilities. Generally ruthless about killing Wesen and are the "boogey men" of the GRIMM world creatures. Recognizable by Wesen by their eyes: they can "see" the Wesen for what they actually rare, their eyes turning black like a midnight sky.
> 
> CREATURES:
> 
> Fuschbau: Fox-type of Wesen, with foxy features. Clever, they are often associated with shady dealings.
> 
> Blutbaden: Wolf-type Wesen, powerful with claws and jaws. Big Bad Wolf is based off them.
> 
> Reapers: Reapers in Grimm are specially trained, contract killers of Grimm. They are part of the Verat, or the organization that watches over and polices Wesen all over the world. Reapers are also called “Grimm Reapers,” as they are generally sent to kill Grimms. This is different from SPN Reapers who are “Angels of Death” more or less…
> 
> THESE NAMES CAN BE GOOGLED.
> 
> (Side-note: I've never understood living under the virtual armpit of the sun and the decision to wear a beanie. It baffles me.)


	4. The Show Must Go On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Dean finds out who that guy is, and that the world is bigger than he imagined...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the most GRIMM canon of the chapters, and will most likely be the last. The script has not changed much from the original because, as in all staged events, it just wouldn't. They would be the same no matter where they went. 
> 
> I'm also kind of... skittish about this chapter. For reasons.
> 
> Trigger Warning: Demon Self-Harm. 
> 
> I think that's it... 
> 
> Bestiary at the end. Again, this is UNBETA'D. Forgive me.

When night finally fell, Dean was quick to buy a ticket from the booth with his now well-earned cash. He slipped in behind some people in cowboy hats and shitkickers who were being rowdy in the middle of the benches. He was just close enough to get a good view of the cage, but not so close that he would be spotted by the guy he ran into earlier. He didn’t need to be thrown out, not when he was this close to figuring out who the guy was…

The interior of the tent looked a bit different at night than it did at his first visit. The heavy canvas that had covered the cages before had been replaced by what looked like blood-red silk curtains, while strings of lights lit up decoratively along the walls. They did nothing to disguise the obviously faded, large painted sign made of striped fabric had been hung behind the stage. On a field of faded yellow, the words Carnival Metamorphosia was painted in red. Stage lights lit the edge of the raised stage near the cages, and spotlights had been put in place.

The room filled up pretty quickly, with many of the people getting rambunctious and loud. From the look and smell of things, they were mostly drunk, some of them barely holding their seats. Two extra cages had been added to the raised stage, nearer to the center than the original two, and they were also covered with dark red cloth.

When the benches were completely filled, the tent lights flickered, signalling the beginning of the show. People hushed each other, some giggling loudly and drunkenly, while others clung to each other excitedly.

The lights snapped off and a spot light burned in the center of the black stage, revealing a man in a top hat with aviator goggles over them and dressed like a circus ringmaster.

_Sonovabitch..._

It was the guy who had caught him in the tent last time.

The guy strode forward, the bronze pins in his lapels matching the goggles and the bronze brocade tie that glowed off his crisp white, leaving him gleaming and molten under the spotlight. His bright red jacket of a circus ringmaster, with broad sateen lapels and buttoned over a striped black vest with bright red edging, was tightly fitted to his body. He had on riding boots and carried a heavy-looking bullwhip of black leather.

The man's deep gold eyes peered out into the crowd, his voice booming out into the corners of the tent, "LAAAADIES AND GENTLEMEN!! Welcome to the Carnival Metamorphosia! The magical wonder of FANTASMIQUE CREATURES brought to you to the modern world. Now, a warning my friends. What you are about to see will live in your fear for years... for this is no nightmare. And truth truly is stranger than fiction."

He turned and cracked the bullwhip towards the back of the stage. A spotlight snapped on over a guy standing in the back of the stage, dressed in a costume of dark leather and gauntlets over a sleeveless brown jumpsuit. It was belted by a heavy leather belt with a bronze buckle. His dark brown hair was slicked back into a small ponytail and his heavy brows frowned out at the crowd.

"BEHOLD, DAVE! The last of the dragons on God's green earth! His ferocious nature proves we are lucky they did not devour us all!"

As the Ringmaster finished addressing the crowd, the man turned around to face the back of the tent. At "us all," the whip was cracked again, and the man turned to face the crowd, this time his face scaled and dark green, his nose flattened, and two horns protruding from his head with small spikes coming off the sides of his face like a dragon. His bright yellow eyes glowed wildly in the light as he breathed out a column of flame, scaring the people in the front seat into gasping and shrieking in horror, most of them cringing back into their seats.

He stopped the flame and turned towards the back of the tent, only to turn back to the audience once again, his face back to human and familiar. The audience clapped wildly, thinking it was some sort of trick, but Dean knew better.

 _Wesen_ , he thought. _Holy shit, is that a... Dämonfeuer? There's a damned_ dragon _Wesen ... showing off his dragon fire in public… fuck, is this a Wesen carnival?_

The Ringmaster, however, was onto the next exhibit. He again cracked the whip, and the spotlight snapped over a large and muscular man. He was wearing a skin-colored body suit under a black jumpsuit that was meant to look like a beach-muscleman outfit. A wide, heavy belt intersected the outfit, complete with a wider belt in the front with a fat copper-cross with fleur-de-lis curling on the ends. It looked like he was part of the Wrestling Federation with his smooth bald head and heavy scowl.

"Witness... Ivan. Vile Ivan. Who crushes skulls and breaks bones with his bare hands."

Ivan turned towards the back and, when he again faced the crowd, his skin was a dark orange-brown, with pointy ears and fangs that protruded partially from his mouth. He growled and violently smashed two skulls together, and the crowd clapped gleefully. He turned towards the back of the tent again, and turned to face the audience, un-woged.

_What the... that's a Siegbarste... a damned ogre…holy shit, they're rare..._

Ivan posed with his guns, meant to show off the heavy biceps and triceps, and grunted in satisfaction as the audience ate up his act. The light snapped off.

"The beautiful Genevieve!"

The light snapped back onto a beautiful blond woman. Her hair was short and curly, and she wore a bustier with purple and turquoise panels with black piping. Gold chains decorated the front, and she wore it over a skin colored body suit and a matching short skirt. Long black velvet gloves covered her to her mid-upper arm, and she posed for the crowd gracefully.

"Who proves that beauty is but skin deep... and that a beast resides within us all."

As the Ringmaster said this, Genevieve turned and when the whip cracked, she turned back to the crowd, her face furred like a fox, her eyes glowing lime green, and her fangs bared.  The crowd gasped in horror and some people drew back in fear.

_Ah... a Fuchsbau... she’s literally a foxy lady…_

Dean chuckled to himself, wishing Sam was here to annoy with his bad joke. While he amused himself, the Fuchsbau turned her back on the audience and when she faced them again, she was beautiful once more.

The spotlight snapped off over her, leaving just the Ringmaster in the spotlight. He smiled at the crowd confidentially, and walked slowly towards the cage on the left of the audience with a measured step.

"Now, people, I have shown you the beasts that hide among us... but there is more. There are the beasts that ride our shoulders and invite us to Heaven... or HELL!"

He snapped the curtain off the cage on the left, and the audience gasped in horror. A young man dressed in just black shorts sat in the middle of the cage, his eyes completely black and he was grinning madly at the audience. He hissed, "Do you think you'll escape us? Do you think you'll escape us?" Spittle escaped his lips as he gibbered and laughed, clawing at his face and body. Two small bat-like wings protruded from his back and they flapped out of time with his laugh.

Dean had never seen whatever-that-thing was before. He frowned slightly, trying to sift through the mental catalog in his head, when the guy’s eyes slid over to him as if it knew he was there. It howled, "Deeeean!! Deeeeaaan Wiiiincheester!! See you sooon!!" It proceeded to rip strips of flesh out of its arms and chest as it cackled.

At the name, the Ringmaster’s head snapped towards where the monster was looking, his face vaguely alarmed. The Winchesters were infamous as Grimms, and Dean figured that the Ringmaster was worried about it. Rightfully so, since his Dad was thorough and absolutely unforgiving of all Wesen. Dean ducked down a bit like he was picking up something, avoiding his view, and the Ringmaster’s eye slid past him.

At this point, though, the audience was genuinely horrified by the self-mutilation. The people began to murmur disapprovingly, but the Ringmaster began to throw tangerine-sized balls at the guy. Those black eyes flicked to the balls and, once they were inside the cage, they were thrown back out by some unseen force. The guy hissed again, and the cage began to shudder and tremble of its own accord, as if holding in a great power.

"Sooner or later I'll escape this trap," he growled, eyeing the audience and laughing at them. “I’ll have you all, then! Raw, with a bit of salt!”

"CREATURE," intoned the Ringmaster, "What are you? NAME YOURSELF?"

"Name myself? Are you fucking nuts?"

The whip cracked. The guy laughed. The Ringmaster stepped closer and shook what looked like water onto him. The water hissed and sputtered where it touched the guy's skin and he howled. The audience gasped in disbelief.

"NAME YOURSELF!"

"DEMON!" It howled. "Oh you bastard! I'll get you for this! A million years in the lowest circle of Hell, I'll eat your flesh and dance on your intestines!"

_Holy fu… a **demon**? Those things exist? No fucking way… wait… does Dad know? The fuck..?_

As Dean tried to come to terms with the sudden addition to his mental bestiary, the Ringmaster flung some more water on the demon, and a small grim smile played around his lips as the creature rolled in pain.

"Holy water, " he said solemnly. "This is the evil that lurks in the heart of men! That whispers to us and bids us do evil!"

The creature cursed and cursed, the wounds healing even while the audience watched, making it seem even more unlikely to be real. Because of that, and the fact most of them were drunk, the audience clapped slowly and built momentum as two men appeared to cover the cage up again, while a third tranquilized the guy from a blind spot and distance with what looked like a blowgun. If Dean hadn't been looking for how they were going to shut down the creature, he would have missed it.

_Quiet it down… wonder how long the tranquilizers last? He seems to heal at an incredibly fast rate…_

The tranquilizers really did seem to barely slow the demon’s howls and curses. The Ringmaster ignored them and tucked the water away into his jacket pocket again, his measured steps taking him to the right cage.

Dean's eyes narrowed as he watched the man take out a thin silver sword.

"Afraid, my dear friends? Have hope! For evil is not the only thing that hangs on our shoulders! Behold!"

The cloth was snatched off the other cage, and the lights were shut off. The young man from before was still sitting huddled in the middle of his cage too, with his eyes burning bright blue in the darkness, and his skin glowing faintly. "Behold, the Glory of God before our eyes!"

The lights slowly got brighter again, and the spotlight snapped onto the the Ringmaster. He was standing next to the cage, the sword in hand. The Ringmaster touched the young man with the tip of the sword and said, "Rise and show us your power!"

The young man glared at him and the Ringmaster smiled grimly again.

Dean was beginning to hate that smile.

The Ringmaster’s eyes bored into the young man with dark promise of something unpleasant and the young man squinted those cerulean blue eyes at him. Finally, after a moment of glaring at each other and the audience murmuring with unease, the young man stood with effort and then seemed to stagger under some mysterious force. He hunched his shoulders and suddenly black-feathered wings appeared from his back flaring out from his back like a startled eagle.

“Holy shit…”

Dean hadn't meant to say it out loud, but the wings were amazing. He had never seen anything so beautiful in his life. They were huge, and black like the Impala. They had depths to them that absorbed the light but somehow still managed to glow with faint iridescence. He was shocked by his sudden need to touch them and see if they were as soft as they looked. The young man suddenly turned his head back towards the audience, but locked eyes with Dean. He felt himself drown in the blue, his desire to touch the guy’s face and kiss those pink lips filling him.

_I’m in trouble…_

While he was wrapped in his own sense of wonder (and, not that he'd admit it, lust), gasps and tears of wonder broke out amongst the audience, but Dean’s eyes were strictly on the “angel.” At least he looked like an angel, from the wings to the diapers.

_Well, at least that explains the diapers, though…were they going for cherub?_

He looked over the young man’s body, and there was nothing chubby, adorable, and pink about him. He was all lean muscles and pale smooth flesh.

_I wonder if I can pull the arrow on his bow though…_

Dean shook his head, trying to drive out the thought. _What the fuck, Winchester? What the ever-loving fuck??_

The wings trembled wildly, as if something was trying to force them back down, and the Ringmaster smiled and nodded approval at the man. “As you can see, ladies and gentlemen, the night is not privy to just terrors. There are angels among us, walking, breathing angels! And you have proof here, folks!”

The angel glowered at the man before seeming to just fold himself back into a ball on the ground, leaving several people weeping with wonder, and a few mocking how “traditional” the so-call “angel” looked, so it must be fake.

_Fucking asshats… that shit is real. Get him out, he’d probably swat you with a supernatural four iron…_

The men replaced the cloth, but not before the angel lifted his eyes up from his knees and caught Dean’s eyes again. There it was again, for a brief moment… the sense of peace and longing that was revved up by a desire to fuck the Holy Ghost out of him. He shivered in the heat, and then the curtains closed. He was left feeling a loss that wrecked him to his soul and he took a shuddering breath trying to gather his wits.

_Holy fucking hell, what was that?_

But that wasn't the end of the show. The stagehands had been busy while everyone had been gasping over the angel. One of the center cages had been moved forward and to the very center of the stage.

The Ringmaster grinned and presented it to the audience with a flourish. “Now, my good folks… we have seen the horrors of bedtime tales. We have witness the evil of Hell and the blessings of God. But, every so often, something appears, that is so horrible, so vicious, it cannot be tamed. For this beast is the demented turmoil of man himself, hidden from view until it is too late!’

The stagehands pulled off the curtain and an older guy in a white shirt and black pants was staring out at the crowd, his eyes dark in his face. He looked like he hadn't slept in awhile, pale skinned and lips. 

“People,” intoned the Ringmaster, “Do not be fooled by the way he looks now.” He cracked the whip and the guy shied away. “Show us. Show us what you are!” He cracked it again, and the guy backed away, seemingly trapped in the corner of the cage, gasping and afraid. “NOW! Show us! I command you to show us!"

The whip cracked and the guy spun around, facing the back of the cage. When he again faced everyone, he looked like a wolf, his eyes red, his fangs bared.

_Oh shit… a Blutbad!_

“Back! STAY BACK!” The Ringmaster snapped the whip, but the Blutbad just growled angrily at him, ignoring the whip. He snarled wildly, and grabbed the cage bars, seeming to easily bend the iron. He slipped through the gap in the bars and howled briefly, claws forward, and facing the crowd. The audience started shrieking and moving backwards, trying to make space between themselves and the monster.

Dean jumped to his feet, his hands at his back where he holstered his 9MM Smith & Wesson when the Blutbad leaped off stage, only to be shot mid-jump by the Ringmaster. He landed in a crumpled heap at the foot of the stage, not moving.

The Ringmaster gracefully hopped off the stage and put two (not very convincing) fingers to the Blutbad’s throat. He nodded sadly, his golden eyes looking to the crowd with sorrow. “He’s dead.”

The Ringmaster then walked back up the stage, intoning gravely, “Let this be a lesson to you, ladies and gentlemen… that there are monsters amongst us in the world!” The stagehands dramatically loaded the “dead body” onto a blanket and carried him out. Dean doubted he was dead; it took more than that to kill a Blutbad.

But the Ringmaster stood at top of the stage, his hands making a round of all the monsters around him, and he solemnly warned, “Beware. BEWARE!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woge: /VOH-gə/ The act of a Wesen revealing its “true” self beneath the human facade. It’s generally a controlled response, but often it occurs when emotions are high. Humans can't generally see it unless the Wesen wants them to, except for Grimms, who can always see them.
> 
> Wesen carnival: Wesen have a set of community laws that protect their existence from “normal” humans. The Wesen Council prohibits showing of Wesen powers, but a carnival has a loophole in it, as the audience doesn't believe they really transform. 
> 
> Dämonfeuer: Dragon-based Wesen. They can spit fire out of their mouths from a buildup of gases in their stomachs.
> 
> Fuchsbau: Fox-like Wesen. 
> 
> Siegbarste: an ogre-type Wesen. They have dense bones and muscles, which make them extremely hard to kill. They are superhumanly strong, and are one of the strongest Wesen to make an appearance up to now. 
> 
> Angel: SPN version has “energy-based” wings, which didn't work well with the GRIMM world Wesen concepts. Still no halo. Sorry.
> 
> Demon: SPN version has no wings, but more physical characteristics are common in GRIMM, so I added a couple of wings and, on closer inspection, tiny horns, and the SPN-version black eyes.


	5. Here We are Now, Entertain Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Dean tries to be slick, the angel has an attitude, and it really is a Wesen carnival...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm putting this out a little faster because 1) I'm avoiding work. 2) I'm actually hella busy and this is a nice little distraction from tests, tests, and test. Oh and essays. 3) I am a worrier, so I will worry and worry over this. Best to treat it like a band-aid and rip it off.
> 
> Also, this is very heavy on the storytelling and not interaction, per se. There will be more... conversation and actual action in the next chapter. I... I think...
> 
> No real Triggers (as far as I know). If there is, message me please.

Dean watched the people file out, some whispering about what they had seen, some laughing, not impressed at the show, while some were still wrapped in wonder at the "miracles" they thought they'd witnessed.

On the other hand, Dean was in something of a pickle trying to figure out how to talk to the angel without interference. The cage was not in a good spot for hiding, since stagehands were swarming over the stage, sweeping the boards, and half-assedly making sure everyone properly left. There was three of them: a large balding guy, a thin rat-tail hairdo having one, and one with tobacco-stained buckteeth. If not much to look at, Dean rationalized, at least, they were efficient in cleaning up. Of course, Dean did not want to properly leave, so he had decided hiding under the raised stage was probably his best bet. He had to find a way; something just wouldn't let him _go_.

He finally decided to sneak around to the backside of the angel’s cage. It looked like settling the angel was much easier than the demon, so they were putting off the demon’s clean up. The rest of the Wesen had already left the stage, including the unnecessarily dramatic exit of the Ringmaster.  That meant they were unlikely to check the angel again after re-positioning the silk curtain for the next show. At least Dean hoped so, because otherwise this was going to be awkward. Rat-tail finished twitching the silk curtain back into place (since that’s all there was to cleaning up), and they turned towards the demon’s cage and the rest of the clean up.

Dean scooted down like he was picking something up and let the last of the crowd move around him. He then maneuvered his way back towards the angel’s cage, slipping under the cloth long enough to dive underneath the raised stage. As he dove underneath, he prayed he wasn't about to make fast face-to-face friends with any snakes or scorpions.

There were some more stomping feet overhead as baldy and black teeth wrestled the central cages back into place, unsettling dirt and dust, and causing Dean to hold back choking coughs into his shoulder. Above him, there was a bit of cursing as rat-tail griped at cleaning up the demon alone. They efficiently put away the benches so they could sweep up after the crowd, picking up trash and tossing it away. There was another show in an hour and things had to look as respectable as dirt and faded curtains could make it.

Dean guessed it took that long for the high dose of tranquilizer to work out of the demon's system. Frightening.

The stagehands finished up quickly, used to the work, resetting the benches, and shuffled out, grumbling about two more days of this hellhole. "Don't even have a decent bar for miles," the rat-tailed one grumbled, his annoyance shadowed on his face briefly as he woged into an actual rodent and back to human.

_Aaaw… maa~an… are the help all Wesen too? Little Reinigen scum… ugh… hate those nasty little bastards…_

Dean shivered, remembering the last time he and his father had cornered a Reinigen in the sewers, a totally bad idea when the little fucker used his music to call up thousands of rats to keep them occupied while he escaped. That had majorly sucked because they had had to get shots for the rat bites on top of the humiliation of losing the Reinigen in the sewer.

He grit his teeth as their voices faded into the backdrop noise of the carnival, praying that none of them could smell him under there. From the hot walk to the currently stuffy air under the stage, he knew that he didn't smell like a peach. He probably smelled more like a roasting dog. A dusty, roasting dog at that.

Dean breathed out, waited about two minutes and slowly slid out, cautiously peeking his head out from under the stage. His dark blue t-shirt felt gross with dirt and sweat, caking into a nasty mud on his chest and arms. Even his jeans were filthy with dirt and what looked like ABC gum on his left knee.

_I’d kill for a shower._

He listened for a bit, craning his head, but the only noise he could discern as he crouched low by the stage was from outside the tent.

_It’s now or never._

He quietly slipped back under the cage's material and pulled himself up, focusing his attention on the cage itself. From his last visit, he knew the cage bars were covered in some sort of writing but this time they felt sharp on his palms as he groped the bars with his fingers, running them up and down the metal.

Because he didn't want to look conspicuous during the show, he had stashed his bag (with most of his big weapons in it) behind some crates outside. He still had a knife stashed in his boot, a small piece of sawing wire, and a small file. The 9mm's holster was designed to hide in his jeans at the back, so he had that under his shirt, but he also had the thin blade in his belt and the small pistol in his other boot, just in case.

Of course, he didn't know what worked on demons so it was guess work until he could do some research. He didn't think the angel would hurt him, at least not according to the lore he did know, so he was just counting on his gut feelings and Christmas stories.

But what sealed the deal were the bright blue eyes that seemed to glow and stare intently at him as if they could read his mind. _Possibly_ , he thought, sinking into what might be called a poetic moment he'd never cop to, _my soul_.

This time Dean took in the round face with the sharp cheekbones, the thin nose, black lashes, and full lips. He tried not to stare, but his mouth suddenly felt dry, his heart beat was in his ears, pounding hard. He swallowed with difficulty and whispered, "I'm going to get you out. There's a spell on the bars, right?"

The head of dark curls nodded once towards Dean, but the blue eyes never left him. Suddenly, breathing felt like a chore and he reluctantly tore his eyes away from the insistent blue eyes to concentrate on the problem.

The iron bars, however, proved a bit harder to saw through than he originally thought. The blue eyes kept catching his attention by narrowing and then flicking towards the back. Dean missed the angel’s intention the first few times he had done that, until the blue eyes caught his with an intensely sharp glare and shifted pointedly towards the back.

_Oh... The door... Duh._

He nodded and shuffled awkwardly towards the back, trying to stay under the cloth. He wasn't sure why he had fixated on the bars, but, when he saw the lock, he groaned. The lock was huge, blocky, easily as wide as his spread-out hand, and also covered in sigils.

_It looks like it’s been stolen out of Monty Python’s “Holy Grail,” for fuck’s sake._

He sighed and lightly knocked his head against the lock.

_Really? Fucking really?_

But maybe that was exactly what needed to be done, as one of the sigils on the front already had a cut through it. The cut was apparently not deep enough, although it looked like it had been made by careless hands trying to open the lock.

_Well maybe I can work with this, though..?_

He took out his file and scratched the lock. The metal was hard, and he nearly lost a finger trying to scratch it. His muffled curses made him remember who he was in front of, and he snapped his eyes up to see the angel had turned around somehow without him noticing, and, although still curled into himself, his head was cocked slightly to the left like a bird, eyes wide and curiously watching him, as if he was listening and contemplating to what all those words meant. Dean felt a blush ride up his face, and he quickly looked down and eyeballed the lock again.

_Shit. That didn't work… maybe I can pick it? But… this shit is **old** and I’m not very good at anything harder than handcuffs... a hotel door… hell, a whole damn string of locker locks… well, even a couple of safes, but still… **this shit is old** … _

He was working on getting out his lock pick when he felt a prickling on his skin. He looked to find the angel glaring at him. Dean’s eyes flew wide, and he shrugged absently in response, causing the angel to frown. Dean had no idea what the angel was angry about.

The angel kept glaring and finally rolled his eyes.

 _Well, sorry I don't know angel-eye speak_ , Dean growled in his head. 

Definitely appearing to be fighting something, the angel stretched out his left hand, with great effort and trembling limbs, and then made a curve with his right. He made sure Dean was watching him do it, and then he swiftly moved his right hand like he was popping it off the left.

His face said he was expecting something, but Dean had to think through the hand gestures while the angel waited, a near Sam-patented bitch face pointed at him.

_Pop it off… well, maybe…_

He eyed the lock again, and that’s when he saw it: there were no sigils on the lock’s shackle. He had missed the first point of fast robbery: cut the shackle and run.

Dean grinned at the angel, who nodded faintly, and pulled his sawing wire out again to try and saw through the lock. The metal was not forgiving, but at least it was thinner than the bars. The angel watched each one of his actions like they were pieces of a puzzle he was trying to solve, and Dean tried to ignore him because it made him nervous as hell to have those surreal eyes on him. It took him awhile to manage to saw through the metal, and, when he was almost through it, the angel suddenly got a worried expression on his face. His eyes started to transmit urgency and Dean thought about how much time he's spent fussing with the cage.

He checked his watch, and saw that it had already been about 30 minutes since he’d started. As he tried to move faster, he heard it. The shuffling sound coming from the other cage, followed by a faint hissing noise and the scratching of nails against metal.

_Oh shit! The demon’s waking up!_

He stepped up his efforts, but just as he managed to pull the wire all the way through the metal bar, he heard it speak low and guttural,. “ _Deeeeeeeean… Deeeeeeeaaaan Wiiiiiiiincheeeeesteeer… you’ll never escape… you’ll never escape us… never!!_ ”

Roughly, Dean pulled the lock out of the way and, as he opened the door, the angel suddenly flew forward through it, as if compelled. He barely missed Dean, and, as the angel fell outward, he started to glow bright white, like an exploding spotlight. As the light grew, the demon started to gibber and howl, and some self-preservation circuit in Dean's head made him close his eyes. As he closed them, even ducking for good measure, a giant flash of light exploded out of the angel. The demon’s howl faded into nothing.

To Dean, the explosion of light felt it like the sun after a long winter; his brother sitting next to him while watching TV; or the warmth of sitting next to the oven in the evenings waiting for a fresh pie to come out.

The light went away, and he cautiously opened his eyes, blinking away after images and orbs. He found the angel collapsed on the floor, his face pale and exhausted. There was nothing but silence from the other cage, but Dean didn't question it. He picked up the angel, slinging an arm around his waist, and fled out the front of the tent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reinigen: Rat-like Wesen who are known for being light on their feet, if not inhumanly strong. They are scavengers and they tend to be clever, with excellent and nimble hands and talents for music. Some Reinigen can use their music to manipulate rats like the Pied Piper of Hamelin.


	6. He is a Feather in The Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Dean realizes he's in deep shit, the angel gets fresh, and the get-away is (mostly) made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There shouldn't be any other significant overlap between the GRIMM story line and this AU anymore. I mean, there might, but it’ll be because I am an idiot and love Nick and Monroe, and not because they need to overlap.
> 
> Also, this is completely un-beta'd. If you see a problem or want to suggest something, please do. I promise I don't bite!! :D

> _Should I fall out of love, my fire in the light,_  
>  _To chase a feather in the wind,_  
>  _Within the glow that weaves a cloak of delight,_  
>  _There moves a thread that has no end._  
>   
>  _For many hours and days that pass ever soon,_  
>  _the tides have caused the flame to dim,_  
>  _At last the arm is straight, the hand to the loom,_  
>  _Is this to end or just begin?_ ~ [Led Zeppelin, All My Love](http://youtu.be/qBI_Av00_Fo)

Dean knew that what with the demon’s yelling his name, the exploding angel, and the show opening up in less than 20 minutes, he was short on get-away time. He hadn't anticipated the burst of light or the guy collapsing afterwards, so maybe his Dad was right about his never thinking ahead and how that constantly got him in trouble. He shook the thought from his head: one problem at a time and he had at least five on his plate at this moment. His biggest one was how to smuggle a naked guy past a carnival full of Wesen.

The fact that he had chosen to blow out the front where twenty or so people were waiting to get in, and the ticket seller was standing in his booth, chatting up a blonde MILF, didn't help. The ticket seller (in a clown suit and make up, for fuck’s sake. Did he really think he was going to get laid?) whirled around at the noise, doing a double take when he realized one of the prime attractions was being carried away.

“HEY! YOU CAN’T--”

Dean’s blow hit him hard on the jaw, the full force of his 18-year-old muscle added to the power of his moving forward at the same time snapped back the guy’s head and knocked his ass out flat. The MILF ( _wait...not a MILF...like his age...but needed to stay the fuck out of the sun_ ) screamed and everyone turned to watch Dean carry the angel away. He carried the angel awkwardly, since he was helping minimally, and, even if he was kind of thin, he was still kind of heavy.

Dean growled out a set of words his father had no idea he knew and swung towards the back the tent, snatching up his bag. _God damn it_ , he snarled internally, eyeing his surroundings. _What the fuck should I do?_

The soft tugging at his shoulder made him look down into those bottomless-blue eyes. The angel weakly pointed to fortune teller’s tent, and Dean gave no shits. If the angel thought it was safe, who the fuck was he to question it?

He ducked in, and, sure enough, she wasn't there. Just a small table with magical shit on it, a folding chair, and a sign that said “OUT TO LUNCH.” He was totally impressed with how the high school kids had all managed to get in since there wasn't room for more than four people sitting or maybe six standing. He released the angel, who clung onto the table for balance, threw down his bag, and, again, in a crouch, scooted towards the front of the tent to peek outside. The not-MILF was pointing around the edge of the tent, in view, and the rat-boy and his stagehand buddies looked pissed. _Shit._ They had maybe two minutes before they were found. He spun on his toes to find the angel already in his bag and trying to pull out clothes.

“Oh, good idea,” Dean said, jumping into the bag too and pulling out some jeans. The angel was already struggling into a t-shirt, and, when Dean handed him the jeans, he took them with a confused expression. _Ah hell. I don’t have time for this._

He held the jeans out towards the angel, low enough so he could step into them. The angel managed to get his feet though the legs when, as expected, rat-boy and friends popped into the tent.

“Told you they were here,” Rat boy said with a pleased grin. Dean jumped up in front of the angel to protect him, which seemed like a good idea until he realized just how outnumbered he was.

The other two guys, big, bald and burly, and his buddy blackteeth, woged into a god-damned Bauerschwein and another Reinigen rat-pain in the ass. _What the fuck is a pig even doing with a carnival like this? WITH a Blutbad in it? I don’t...fuck...I’m in trouble...I could take two Reinigen but... a Bauerschwein too..? I'm still in training... fuck... can I do it..?_

The angel, his pants somewhat on, eyed them all and, for a moment, they looked scared. He reached across Dean’s shoulder, leaning on him for balance, and tapped Blackteeth with his fingers. He dropped like someone had hit him with a tranq. The pig and Mr. Original Rat-boy looked down at their friend in shock, but the angel reached out in that time and tapped both of them quickly on the forehead, and they all collapsed into boneless heaps of sleeping Wesen on the ground.

Dean whistled low, impressed. “That’s handy. No wonder they kept you sealed up!”

That’s when Dean noticed the angel was leaning halfway off his back, his chin on his shoulder and face really close to his, those blue eyes fringed with long dark lashes that looked at him, through him. The body that was touching him from hip to shoulder was warm and tingly, and he felt every inch of the warmth along his side. He swallowed hard and turned back to facing forward, a hot flush of blood rising through his face.

_Hooo~ly shit...he’s so close…_

The angel tried to push himself up and away from Dean, but he started to slip downwards as the borrowed jeans weren't buttoned and were trying to fall off, tangling around his knees.

“Whoa, there buddy, I got you!” Dean half whirled to catch the angel, and the angel’s hands grabbed his shoulder to stay balanced. An electric current ran from his hand and through the thin cotton of Dean’s shirt, and he shivered in the still-hot night air. The angel’s face was still just inches from his, the pale pink lips slightly parted, and the bright blue eyes just looking into his like he was looking for something inside of Dean. Heat started to move through his body again, and Dean pulled the pants together, while the angel held himself up by grasping Dean’s shoulders. Dean tore his eyes away from those searching eyes and zipped them up, just like he used to do with Sammy when he was a kid. Without thinking, he grinned into the angel’s face with satisfaction of a job well done (even if it was just a pair of pants. Kids squirm).

The angel’s face when he looked up was still very close, and Dean’s breath caught in his throat when the angel moved in even closer, his eyes half closed, his nostril flaring, scenting Dean lightly. Dean was about to protest when those gorgeous lips brushed his, sending signals to his brain that (somewhere in there) knew they had no time, but that this was important. This was something that mattered. The soft kiss felt like the brush of ozone before a storm in Kansas, the slight static charge that came with roll of thunder. The angel clung closer and Dean was helpless against those lips, a tiny lick of a wet tongue dipping into his mouth. _The taste of rain on a summer night. The smell of snow in the mountains. Ripe apples bursting on his tongue._

He groaned in his throat and wrapped his arms around the angel, deepening the kiss, _tasting the wind in autumn, the heat of summer haze, and the sweet wine his mother used to drink_. Something warm, bright and other burst into existence inside him, and suddenly he could hear his name: _Dean. Dean. Dean!_

His eyes flew open and he pushed the angel away, staring into those questioning blue eyes in shock. “Did...Did you just talk in...”

The angel’s head cocked slightly, as if he didn't understand what the problem was, and then Dean heard the dreaded sound. The Ringmaster’s voice was loud and he was cursing up a storm. The growl in his voice told Dean he was probably dealing with another Wesen. He had wasted too much time. Again.

It was not his day. 

_Damn it. I knew… gah, this is not the time to let your libido take over, Winchester!!_

He frowned and eyed the angel. Aside from his curious expression and lack of shoes, he looked like any other guy. Thin, kind of pale, but still...like just a guy, not an angel.

Dean dug into the bottom of his bag and took out a kerchief he used occasionally to clean his guns. It smelled like gun oil, but it was all he had. The angel recoiled when Dean tried to put it on his head, nose wrinkling at the smell, but Dean shook his head and tried to convey how important it was all while trying to get the guy to keep still.

With a pout, the angel let the Grimm put the kerchief on his head, but he was genuinely unhappy. He looked, however, like he was fifteen, and Dean had to stifle a laugh. The angel glared at him under the kerchief. _This is not funny, Dean._

Dean’s eyes got wide and he stared at the angel, startled that, again, he had heard it in his head. That is, until he realized that the Ringmaster was getting ridiculously close from the shouts outside. “Come on,” he hissed, stuffing everything violently into his bag and grabbing the angel’s arm. “We gotta run. Follow my lead, okay?”

Dean worried about the angel’s lack of shoes while he half carried the angel out on his hip. They left the pile of unconscious Wesen and ducked out the back, where Dean tried to sling his bag behind his back casually and keeping an arm around the angel, praying the long jean legs were enough to protect the angel’s feet for now.

“I know, I’m done, _baaby_ ,” he said loudly, keeping the angel close to his side, nuzzling at his ear. He hoped it was convincing enough that they would slide under the radar. “I said just one more ride on the coaster and I meant it, okay?”

The angel gave him a sidelong look, but since Dean was still holding him up, he didn't do anything more.

As a Grimm, Dean’s senses were enhanced. Dean always thought that was fair, since the creatures they hunted were all enhanced and often mean and ornery as hell. In cases like this, the extra strength was a real help as he dodged between tents, teetering just enough to look drunk, and hid among the crowds. The people around them, more concerned with food, children, or lines, just thought they were another couple of drunk teens at the carnival, half carrying the angel the whole time like the angel was his lover he couldn't get enough of. 

He kept an eye out for the Ringmaster, all while cooing into the angel's ear. When they broke the tent line's boundary into the parking lot, Dean finally turned his face towards the angel, grinning like he was a great escape artist. The angel was watching him with wide blue eyes, his face still so close Dean could feel his breath on his face. The memory of the kiss rocked him back on his heels a bit, and a hot blush burned its way up his face yet again. He ignored the embarrassment and kept pulling the angel along.

"Sorry, I know you're, like, an angel and stuff but, uh, if we're going to escape, I'm going to have to jack a car..."

The angel gave him an uncomprehending look, and Dean tried his best not to swear.

"I'm going to steal a car. I wasn't going to before, but with you here..."

The angel nodded like he understood, and Dean saw an [old white Jeep CJ Renegade](http://www.motortopia.com/files/cars/album_1978_jeep_cj5_levi_edition/47ff79a2deefb/100_2439JPG_Thumbnail1.jpg) sitting in the dirt parking lot among the other newer model cars. A pair of fuzzy pink dice hung from the rear-view mirror, and the pink spare tire cover said “Bitch” with a silhouetted woman flipping a bird. With less guilt in his heart, he threw his bag into the back of the Jeep, settled and seat belted the angel into the passenger's side, and hopped into the driver’s seat. Forty-five seconds later, he had hot wired the Jeep and they were making way towards the interstate, the pink dice now bouncing in the road behind them.

The angel immediately started to nod off against the frame, and, as he did, Dean heard that voice in his head say, “ _Thank you…_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reinigen: Rat-like Wesen who are known for being light on their feet, if not inhumanly strong. They are scavengers and they tend to be clever, with excellent hands and talents for music. 
> 
> Bauerschwein: A pig-like Wesen who tend to be on very bad terms with Blutbad. Think 3 Little Pigs and the Big Bad Wolf. Otherwise, conscientious workers and, aside from their hatred of Blutbad, nice guys. Generally.
> 
> SIDE-NOTE: The Ringmaster IS a Wesen, but it's not important to the story, since I scooted by the confrontation and he dies in Portland (GRIMM, The Show Must Go On), so he won't show up again... 
> 
> Also, THANK YOU for comments. I will also take suggestions because this world is huge and I'm really just feeling the size of it now...


	7. There's Vultures and Thieves at Your Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein things Dean learns a few things, Cas pouts, and they aren't even out of the desert yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Formatting change: To make sure Dean's thoughts and Castiel's speech are noticeably different, I just added quotation marks to Cas because... damn.
> 
> ALSO... a bit late. FINALS ARE KILLING ME!!
> 
> Lastly... um, more action next chapter... and more Grimm world interference. Ah, poor Dean...

 

> _Oh let the sun beat down upon my face, stars to fill my dream;_  
>  _I am a traveler of both time and space, to be where I have been;_  
>  _To sit with elders of the gentle race, this world has seldom seen;_  
>  _They talk of days for which they sit and wait and all will be revealed;_  
>  _Talk and song from tongues of lilting grace, whose sounds caress my ear;_  
>  _But not a word I heard could I relate, the story was quite clear_  
>                                                                            ~Led Zeppelin, Kashmir

**_Darkness. Endless painful pressure. Intense deep pain to the bone. Stolen angel blade cuts flesh, nicks bones. Wings stabbed again and again. Healing slow. So slow. Soft spot between shoulders torn and torn. Bottoms of my feet cut deeply. Painful. Stabbed. Burned. Not healing. Bearing wings against sharp endless pain. Show them to the humans. Humans  not supposed to know...not supposed to know..._ **

**_Cannot. Cannot bear. Heavy burden. Heavy. It hurts, the wards…this, the heavy burden of the wards turned inward. Pressed into a ball? How long... how long suffering...Wait... There... A light... Finally a..._ **

 

A rough hand shook his shoulder. "Hey, man... You okay?"

 Castiel looked up into eyes like the forest at noon, deep green and full of life. A dusting of freckles across his nose and cheeks made him want to memorize them like the celestial spheres, and he unthinkingly reached out his hand to touch them.

The young man blinked and reared back out of reach, hands up and protective.

 “Whoa, there buddy! Personal space! You were groaning and turning in your sleep. You okay?”

Castiel frowned slightly, unsure why he wasn't supposed to touch. Don’t humans touch each other?

Dean ( _DeanwaitingforyouDean_ ) took his arm and pulled him carefully out of the passenger's side of the Jeep. “We have like ten minutes. I’m going to go… do… something, and then I’ll be right back.” Green eyes stared at him for a moment, concerned. “I… uh… didn't want to just leave you in the Jeep.”

Castiel cocked his head and stared intently at Dean. He thought about how long he’d been in the cage, and he thought about all the pressure underneath the inverted anti-angel wards, and he felt panic start to move its way up his throat. Although the Jeep was open, even lacking doors, he had been trapped in one position so long with no escape. He frowned deeply and squinted past Dean into the night.

It was still a desert, but there were more rocks. A lot more rocks. And roads. He didn't remember those from last time he had been on Earth. Of course, that had been a long time ago. Humans had barely learned how to build.

Dean chuckled and swiped the filthy kerchief off Castiel’s head. “No worries, little angel! I’ll just be a moment!”

He felt the faint indignity of being called “little” but shrugged it off. He would continue to grow, now that he was no longer incarcerated. Instead he watched Dean walk away, his vision as clear as if it were day. Dean’s jeans and shirt were still crusty, sweat stains in the armpits and back. But the dirty clothes with the sweat stains could not stop his soul shining like a miniature sun. It glowed and beckoned to Castiel, and he found himself trying to follow behind the young man, only to have his feet and strength fail him. He fell back against the Jeep’s doorway with a small grunt.

He had not recuperated enough. He had spent too much time under the wards and spent too much energy when he was suddenly released from them. The bright burst of grace had been unintentional; his control was not optimal. He was just plain weak.

Of course, that was, contextually speaking, debatable. He could still do small things, like knock out enemies, or connect Dean with his grace (although Dean did not seem to understand what had happened, but he was, after all, just human). He could also minimally protect himself, but considering he was a multi-dimensional being the size of the Chrysler building while in Heaven, being pared down to a flesh receptacle on Earth was frustrating for him. He just needed time to recuperate his grace.

But surely Dean understood?

He watched the light-haired man look around and finally crouch down to scoot close to the back of a different vehicle. Castiel didn't know what the purpose of this activity was, but found himself observing the muscles work under the dark blue shirt, the mechanics of Dean’s human body fascinating: fine motor control of his fingers around the screwdriver, the tension of the tendons in his hand and wrist as he removed the flat, if colorful, bit of metal off the car he was hiding behind. The way his shoulders rotated a bit each time he turned his wrist, to the slight tilt of his head as he peered at his work. When the metal plate had been worked free, Castiel wondered what the point of Dean hiding it under his shirt was, but he apparently knew what he was doing.

He returned to the Jeep, walking confidently now, his shoulders back and loose, an arrogant smile playing around his lips. Castiel did not understand why but under the half lights of parking lot, Dean looked like a fine piece of art, carved out of the finest of his Father’s creations. The loose joints, the bowed legs, the way his muscles moved beneath the heavy fabric of his jeans… they were all impressive examples of humanity. Castiel wanted to touch and examine each and every bit with his fingers, running them against those tendons and joints, feel the tension and relaxation of each one under his palms. For some reason, it excited him beyond reason.

Sadly, his current state left much to be desired in just moving, so he swallowed down his urges and just waited for the young Grimm to approach him.

Dean walked up to where Castiel was leaning against the Jeep and, from under his shirt, flashed the metal plate, a triumphant grin on his face. “Now I just need to switch the Jeep’s plate, then take off the damned pink wheel cover and toss it.”

Castiel blinked at him, and realized suddenly that the vehicle they were riding in also had a flat bit of metal that was, for some reason, important to Dean. He frowned. He had never quite mastered the art of speaking like a human. He connected to his tenuous bit of grace in Dean, and asked, " _Is… that metal plate...important?"_

Dean jumped, startled, and stared at the angel. “Was that you? Are you the one talking in my head?!”

Castiel squinted at him, not understanding how Dean hadn't connected the dots yet.

_"Yes, Dean, I am the one talking to you. Why, do others often talk to you like this?"_

Fear flitted over Dean’s face and he covered it with a frown. “No, they don’t! But… NO! Get the fuck out of my head, dude! Use your mouth like a regular guy!”

Castiel eyed him with exasperation. " _First of all, Dean, I am not a regular guy. Second of all, I do not have full control of my flesh, and I never quite got used to using… words… to express myself. I had to connect my grace to you in order to 'speak' to you. Is it… uncomfortable?"_

Angry now, Dean snapped, “Yeah, it’s fucking uncomfortable! Who wants some… angel… guy… thingy… in his head?!”

Castiel was offended. " _Dean, I am not a 'thingy.' I am Castiel, Angel of the Lord."_

Dean’s jaw dropped. “Get the hell outta here. You really are? No fu- no way! There’s no such thing.”

Now somewhat amused, Castiel let a smile curve the edge of his lips. He missed Dean’s eyes tracking it, and said, " _This is your problem, Dean. You have no faith. I use ‘angel’ because that is what your kind has always called us. I have come to Earth because God commanded it. We have work for you."_

He paused, wondering if maybe, since his power was low, he shouldn't mention the primary reason for his incarnation on the earthly plane. Seeing how Dean was already uncomfortable with just his existence and the use of his grace, perhaps diplomacy was in order…

_"Dean, allow me to reassure you. I cannot read all of your mind. Only thoughts that are directed towards me. Or really strong thoughts, actually. And… this bridge is not permanent. I would have to renew it once in awhile for it to be maintained."_

“What… wait… what are you talking about… Is this…?” He paused and a blush began to rush up his face, the freckles dark under the glow of his cheeks. “Are… are you talking about the… y’know… that...um…”

Castiel just watched the play of emotion across Dean’s face: embarrassment, confusion, vague anger, then more embarrassment. He wanted to relieve him of some that emotion.

_"I touched my mouth to yours and created a temporary bond."_

Dean’s face got redder, his ears burning at the tip, his freckles stark on his cheeks. “Tha… that wasn't just…”

Castiel tilted his head a bit and stared at him. Dean turned his head a bit, avoiding his eyes.

_"But… Dean, you are the one who did more than touch lips…"_

“Ugh! ENOUGH with the chick flick moments! I need to finish changing these out!”

_"The one on our vehicle… we just need to exchange them?"_

“Yeah, I just need to-”

_"It’s done."_

Dean stared at his empty hands, and stepped backwards to get a look at the Jeep’s license plate. Castiel tried not to smile at his surprise and the admiration that flickered over his face. It had cost him a bit, but a simple exchange should not have drained him too much. Hopefully.

Dean craned his head and tried to squint towards the other car, and Castiel knew he was trying to make sure they were exchanged properly.

 _"Dean, I think I am quite capable of a simple exchange of items_."

Dean looked back towards him and smiled a slow, easy smile that made something in the angel curl hungrily. “I don’t know you, and I don’t know angels, dude. Just making sure.”

_"My name is Castiel, not dude."_

A low chuckle rumbled out of the Grimm, and, again, something in Castiel reacted hungrily. “Fine, Castiel. So-called Angel of the Lord, huh? Let’s get going before anyone catches us here, uh, exchanging items.”

When Dean said his name, again, something warm and hungry just curled, as if waiting for something. Castiel pushed off the Jeep’s door frame, nearly falling over, and Dean caught him, his hands wrapping around the angel’s upper arms. The contact tingled up and down his body, and he looked into the man’s eyes with surprise, finding his face close to him, the forest green eyes wide with shock, his lips partially open. Dean’s tongue darted out to lick those beautiful soft lips, and Castiel’s eyes fixated on it, on how it left a wet streak invitingly behind.

The memory of the sudden kiss between them sent a flare of something hot through his body.

( _minemineDeanminewant_ )

Dean averted his eyes and stepped back a bit, still holding onto the angel. “Whoa, seriously. You and I need to have a talk about personal space, buddy!"

Castiel was confused.  " _I am not your buddy…"_

A roll of the eyes and a soft push back towards the Jeep kept the angel moving. “Yes, yes. You’re an Angel of the Lord. Jesus, Cas, I get it already!”

_"Cas..?"_

Dean wrangled the angel back into the passenger’s seat and locked him in with the seatbelt. “Cas. It’s short for-”

 _"Yes, I get that_." The angel thought dismissively. He savored the shortened version of his name and decided he liked it. " _I have never had a nickname. This will be interesting._ "

Dean grinned and walked towards the driver’s side. Although he thought he was safe from being overheard, Castiel still heard him say, “That’s one way to put it, that’s for damn sure.”

Dean watched the angel settle into the car seat with a sigh. He felt all his troubles weighing on him, the mysteries just piling up higher and higher, and the angel was at the core.

The bright blue eyes started to close, long dark lashes fluttering against half-lit cheeks, and Dean felt something he ignored in the pit of his stomach. Maybe even a bit lower, if he were being honest. And he wasn't.

The Winchesters had cornered the market on emotional constipation years ago, and Dean was the heir apparent and burgeoning CEO.

He sighed heavily, and fumbled in his jean's pocket, pulling out his cellphone. Without looking, he pressed two and waited for the call to connect. Bobby's gruff voice growled out at the third ring.

"'Bout time you called me, ya idjit. Yer dad called to tell me you were coming back with yer tail between yer legs and panties in a bunch." He paused, and then huffed out, "So tell me what really happened?"

Dean inwardly cringed. Bobby Singer was also a Grimm, distantly related through his Dad's side, but to Dean he was a second and better father than John. Although he'd never voice that, since he really loved and admired his father. Still, it stung him that his father had known exactly what he'd do. "I talked back and he smacked me for it." Pause. "I deserved it. I failed Sam and Dad."

The phone went quiet for a moment and Bobby finally said, "Son, you didn't fail anyone. Yer brother is a smart little sonuvabitch and he gave you the slip."

Dean pressed his lips to hold in the desire to whine, but when he breathed out, it shuddered a bit. He tried again. _Steady there, tiger. You got this._

"Actually, Bobby," he said slowly, grateful for a topic change, looking over at the sleeping angel, "I fell into a job. What... Well, what do you know about angels?"

"Angels? Like halos, heaven, and wings sort of angels?"

Dean shrugged defensively, realized Bobby couldn't see it, and coughed lightly. "Um, yes. That kind of angel." Pause. "I think."

Bobby went quiet again, and then quietly asked, "Dean, what's going on?"

_Knew it._

Dean summarized what had happened after he had separated from John. He could tell Bobby. He got to how the angel was now sleeping next to him in the car, and Bobby swore.

"Is it safe? You don't even know what it is for sure!"

"As safe as anything else." He looked over again at the drooping head and wind-tousled hair. "I'm pretty sure he's okay."

Dean could feel the surprise through the phone.

"Well, if you say so, kid. But if something happens, you tell me. I'll go look up what I can find but..." Loud sigh. "Angels. There's bound to be a ton of lore."

"Oh, demons too," he added quickly.

"Yeah, ok, demons too. Nothing weird about that."

Dean chuckled and hung up.

The drive was relatively quiet if still hot, like a permanent hair dryer in his face. They were soon outside Chandler and Dean knew he not only needed to ditch the Jeep, he was dying to ditch it, he was so desperate to get air conditioning.

He looked over at the unconscious angel and wondered where he came from, and why he heard him in his head. _I mean, what causes that? The kiss, he said, but… how?_

Dark lashes fluttered open, revealing sleepy electric blue eyes. The wind mussed the dark hair and he licked chapped, pink lips. He looked like he had just done something deliciously sinful and Dean found himself suddenly very interested in the road ahead.

 _"I can hear you_ ," the angel said in his head. " _You want to know how...um, well, your question can best be answered by a series of partial differential equations…"_

“Yeah,” Dean cut in with a snort. “I barely got my GED. I’m no Einstein. Aim lower.”

The angel paused and deeply sighed, as if Dean had wounded him to his core. " _Fine. Basically, when we touched lips, I was able to connect to your soul with my grace. But, again, it is not permanent. It will fade with time unless renewed."_

“You touched my soul? What sort of shit is that? I mean, c’mon!”

 _"I do not understand your objection. You now know there are angels and demons in the world. That predicates there is a Heaven and Hell, making it a given you have a soul. My grace is basically what My Father has blessed me with, it makes me an Angel. I do not have a soul, but my grace is a similar energy source."_ He seemed to think on that. " _So to say."_ He ended weakly.

Dean pursed his lips, flicked his eyes over to the angel, and said, “So… you don’t have a soul… you have grace… basically?”

Castiel nodded. " _That is exactly so."_

“I see.” He looked back towards the road. “And you couldn't have just said that instead of whatever it is you said?”

Castiel stared at Dean’s profile uncomprehendingly, and the Grimm started chuckling. “It’s fine, Cas. I’m just messing with you!”

He crooked a smile at the angel. “We’re about to hit Chandler, so I’m thinking we need to ditch this car. I need some relief from the hot desert air and a break from this sh-... uh, crappy seat.”

_"Of course, Dean. Do as you think best. My… time on earth has not exactly… prepared me for actual living amongst humans."_

“You mean the carnival? What the f- I...mean, what happened? How did you get caught?”

Castiel didn't immediately reply, and Dean looked over at him. His eyes were closed, and he was faintly frowning.

“Dude, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want.”

_"It is rather… embarrassing."_

_An Angel of the Lord embarrassed… oh this ought to be good…_

“ _Dean… you realize that I can hear you, right?_ ”

“OH SH… I mean, CRAP!”  Dean turned worried eyes towards the angel, but Castiel was smiling at him. It was a tiny scrap of a smile, but it was a smile. It made his eyes light up and glow faintly in the dark. It was an eerie reminder he wasn't human, but it was also so beautiful it was breathtaking. In fact, Dean forgot how to breath for a moment, and forced himself to look at the road.

_Is this ever going to get easier..?_

“ _Is what…_ ”

In Dean's defense, it had been a long day. A very long, hot, tired, battle-fueled day that gave him no peace and, in fact, had raised his blood pressure in many uncomfortable ways. The sheer fact the hot piece of angel cake sitting in the passenger's side could read his thoughts was unnerving as hell, especially since his windblown hair, maddeningly sweet lips, and storm-filled blue eyes were driving him to think not-so-holy thoughts about him. A lot of not-so-holy thoughts, and a shit ton more of I'm-going-to-hell-for-violating-an-Angel-of-the-Lord sort of thoughts, because Dean had been driving and had nothing to better to do than imagine getting the angel out of his jeans and into his bed. 

They were, undoubtedly, about Cas. And Cas could read thoughts about him. Dean wanted to die.

“OH FOR FUCK’S SAKE!! THAT’S IT! GET OUT OF MY HEAD, CAS!” Dean yanked the steering wheel, bringing the Jeep to a hard stop that made the tires slide a bit in the gravel by the side of the interstate. “I need to have some privacy in my head, damn it, and not have every little…”

_“But...Dean… it’s not every little…”_

“NOT HAVE EVERY LITTLE THOUGHT READ!!” Dean was breathing hard, and he poked his finger at the angel to emphasize his words. “I LIKE HAVING MY BRAIN TO MYSELF. I'VE SHARED A ROOM WITH A SNOTTY-ASS LITTLE BROTHER FOR 14 FUCKING YEARS, AND IT’S THE ONLY SPACE I HAVE TO MYSELF! GET OUT!!”

The angel stared at him with wide blue eyes. A hurt look flitted over his face and he turned to look out towards the landscape, ignoring Dean.

Dean blinked. "Are you out of my head?" He asked tentatively.

Cas ignored him.

_Well, it's something._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cas forgives him. No worries my sweets. AND, it seems sex is sooner than later, since Dean can't quite keep it together... heh heh heh... 
> 
> (probably)
> 
> Love comments and reviews! STILL NO BETA! ;___;
> 
> Thanks for reading with me this far!!


	8. They wait for the time for a devil to get ready

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Dean and Cas make friends, the factions sit up and take notice, and the race to collect the angel begins. Oh, and truck stops are awesome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, there's French in there. In Grimm, the Verrat, Reapers, and Royalty speak in French and German (I'm dreading the German; fortunately I have connections). I didn't translate it in the story, but I put it at the end for the curious. HOWEVER, you don't really need to know what's said because I pretty much explain it. So, no worries. It doesn't break up the story. I asked a Parisian to check the French so it should be good. 
> 
> Next update may take awhile since I'm in the process of moving back to the US. Sorry!!

> _Beaten fallen angel but I've risen again_  
>  _And the power is inside me, I've decided to pray_
> 
> _As I wait for Armageddon and it's coming my way_  
>  _It's an honor to be chosen and I wait for the day_  
>  ~Iron Maiden, [The Fallen Angel](http://youtu.be/6D5Z-PhgpMg)

**Vienna, Austria**    

_Âllo?_

_Oui, c’est moi. J’ai trouvé l’ange. Il est avec Grimm._

_Grimm? Lequel?_

_Vous le connaissez bien...Le fils de Mary Campbell._

_Marie Campbell… ce nom me rend nostalgique. Pourquoi il a l'ange?_

_Je ne suis pas sûr. Il l'emmène quelque part, probablement chez Bobby Singer. Maintenant, ils sont en Arizona._

_Suivez les à distance. Tenez-moi informé._

The man behind the desk hung up the disposable cell phone with a snap. After having lost the angel over a year ago to some sort of mystical static, finding out that it was alive and in Arizona was a god send. Angels were extremely rare, immensely powerful, and difficult to capture. That there was one roaming the earth was already something of a phenomenon, and one he could not pass up. They would have the angel, or people, specifically the Grimm, would die in the trying. 

The man smiled slightly, a charmingly rakish smile, amusement deep in his gray-blue eyes. He was going to make a few more calls, make more arrangements. If the Grimm didn't hand over the angel peacefully, he was going to have to get rough. Odds were he was going to have to get rough because the boy was the child of Mary Campbell and, if he was anything like her, he would be tough, stubborn, intelligent, and skilled. 

The son of Mary Campbell… his mind wandered to his childhood, remembering a girl with blonde hair and blue eyes who played with him occasionally. His smile became a bit fond, although he’d never admit it, for the girl who ran away and found her own life. He thought about Mary and then decidedly started dialing.  

**Mannheim, Germany**

It was 16:00 in the bar, but the back where Yannick liked to sit was dark and warm. He had been waiting for Pegel to show up and take the job of killing the cheeky Grimm who had stolen an angel.

Yannick didn't care about the angel. The summons was not unusual, considering the source, but his current roster of reliable Reapers was low, thanks to Nick Burkhardt’s double murder of Junkers and his co-reaper. Grimms were tough, but, even so, killing two reapers on his own was impressive, and the note he’d sent with it (“Next time send your best”) had been chilling.

But this was no Nick Burkhardt, no veteran Grimm. The son of Mary Campbell would be a child still, and a male child at that. He wouldn't be too much of a problem, unlike his mother. Female Grimms developed so much faster, and were so much quicker to jump into violence. Mary Campbell, with her pure bloodline, had not only been exceptional; she had been exquisite to watch in action, her movements a ballet of knives and swords. Yannick had only seen her in action once, but it imprinted on him to not underestimate Grimms. But this was a measly male child Grimm. They didn’t truly develop until they were in their 20s or 30s sometimes. He was just 18, and undoubtedly not half as skilled as his mother or, really, his low-born father. And the Winchester line was well known as a dark, cursed line, their blood crossed with Wesen occasionally, an abomination to the Royals. They bred true Grimms rarely, with Wesen bloodlines occasionally taking the lead. Those occasions were bad, as the child often went mad from the conflict in its head.

Pegel arrived promptly at 16:05, as promised, cutting into Yannick’s musings.   

_Tu pars aux Etats-Unis demain. En Arizona._

_En Arizona?_

_Oui. Nous avons découvert où l'ange se trouve. Il est avec Grimm._

_Un autre Grimm… ce n’est pas Nick Burkhardt …?_

_Ne t’inquiéte pas. C'est un enfant; seulement 18 ans._

_Un bébé._

_Retournes avec l'ange toute de suite. Le prince le demande._

_Bien. Je comprends..._

Pegel drew himself up to his massive height of 6'7", imposing in the dim light, the rustle of his coat barely discernible in the quiet room, he moved so smoothly. His dark eyes flashed over to Hässlich gray as he turned, the small scrap of paper with his assignment between his thick fingers. If any one had seen his face, the cruel, excited smile that curled on his heavy lips would have worried them.

 _Finally_ , the troll thought eagerly, _a GRIMM_. 

Dean was regretting his earlier outburst. It turned out the angel could hold a grudge and, despite his efforts to restart a conversation, the angel steadfastly ignored his ass.

Dean pulled into the Loves Truck Stop and tried not to blow out a huge sigh. The angel had kept his eyes on the passing landscape, and literally nothing Dean had said caused him to turn around.

Now, sitting in a stolen Jeep, in a Loves parking lot, with a pouting angel, an exhausted Dean had had enough.

"Okay, Cas. Seriously, I... I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean to snap at you. Please, talk to me."

The angel turned to look at him finally. The electric blue eyes glowed slightly with faint regret. " _Actually, I must also apologize_ ," he said somewhat faintly, as if there was interference. " _I did not realize that my lack of verbal capability would cause you distress._ "

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, awkwardly smiling. "I... I think I can get used to it. I'm just not used to people knowing what I think or feel." He extended his hand to the angel. "Friends?"

The angel squinted suspiciously at the hand and then at Dean. " _Are we friends?_ "

Dean laughed, the smile reaching his eyes and making him look his age. "Well, we haven't ganked each other yet, and I did rescue you, so maybe we can become friends?"

"Dean," Castiel said slowly, taking the proffered hand in his, and his mouth moving around the word like it was precious. The low growl of his voice made Dean shiver. "I w-would like...to be your...f-friend."

His glowing eyes beamed into Dean's, the hand in his was objectively soft and warm, yet something made him tingle like static electricity. Desire shot through Dean's body and his dick gave a slight thump of interest. He killed the feeling with thoughts of dead kittens and aborted babies. He swallowed hard and tried to hold onto his smile with little success.

"Thanks, Cas," he said finally, if a bit thickly. He pulled his hand away, missing the sad look that flashed over the angel's face, and jumped out of the Jeep. "I gotta hit the head," he said, leaning in and jerking his thumb towards the building. "We'll boost a different car and keep moving east, okay? Did you need to come in?”

Castiel eyed the truck stop with interest, and nodded. “ _I think I would like to see what a… truck stop? is like… if you do not mind..?_ ”

Dean grinned, but then realized there was a problem. “Whatever floats yer boat, Cas. But I just realized you still don’t have any shoes. I mean, I have some socks in my duffle you can borrow at least, but shoes…?”

Shaking his head, the angel carefully pulled himself out of the Jeep. “ _Unnecessary. My body will heal itself. My grace is returning at a faster rate. It should be fine._ ”

“Uh, okay.” He strolled over to Cas, who eyed him while attempting to stand on his own. He was wobbly like a newborn calf, but he seemed okay for the most part. “You seem alright. Are you good to walk in on yer own, or should I, like, help you in?”

Cas flinched slightly at the implication he was too weak to even make it into the truck stop. “ _I think I can manage to the door, Dean._ ” His tone was faintly indignant, and Dean had to fight back an urge to get pushy.

“Um, okay, if you say so. But holler if you need help.” He poked Cas in the shoulder. “Pride goeth before the fall and all that biblical BS.” He grinned, and Cas rolled his eyes.

“ _I somehow suspect you are the least of people who needs to lecture about pride going before a fall, Dean._ ”

Dean shrugged, snagging out his duffle with one hand, and walked away, still grinning over at Cas. “Got a lot to be proud of Cas. Look at what I got to work with here. I can’t stop myself.”

Castiel refused to be baited and just slowly tottered behind Dean. It was already late but they still had far to go. He still did not have enough power to do much. Concern ate around the edges of his thoughts, but he ignored it. He would be fine tomorrow. He was sure of it.

The hot asphalt under his feet was bearable. He just ignored it and the small rocks and burrs that attempted to pierce his flesh. The air was still hot, despite it being late at night now. He was not used to the heat, but he could also ignore it.

What he couldn't ignore was the doors opening as soon as he approached them. He felt himself want to shrink back in surprise at the chicanery, and realized they opened as he approached the door. He smiled faintly and stepped in and out of range of the sensor, the bell going off each time, until a man in a deep blue vest and a tag that read “Al” leaned over the counter and yelled, “HEY! IN OR OUT BUDDY! YER LETTING THE COLD AIR OUT!”

Cas’s eyes went wide with the knowledge that the magic doors were what held in the cold air, and he stepped in carefully, making sure they shut behind him. They didn't until he was a few steps away, and he watched them narrowly from a distance. The air did indeed feel cooler, he realized, but when he extended his grace, he discovered it was a set of large, loud machines that hummed out cold air. It was not the doors. He had been deceived.

He was perturbed by the deception, and was about to punish the wicked liar, when Dean returned from wherever he had gone, his duffle slung over his shoulder and across his back. His hair was wet, and he looked more refreshed. Cas smiled at him and decided to practice speaking, “Hello Dean.”

The green-eyed Grimm smiled back and said, “Let me get some snacks and let’s get going, Cas.”

Cas nodded as if he understood, and Dean rubbed his hands together gleefully and raided the shelves of food.

After watching Dean grab a bunch of snacks that looked like some sort of pastry product, Cas felt himself being watched. He looked up into the black orb that hung from the ceiling, and peered into it, pretty sure that it was watching him. A small frown tucked in and he flung out a touch of grace. The camera exploded in a shower of sparks that, in turn, fried several lights in the store. Fortunately, the store was empty aside from Dean, the angel, and the cashier. Both Dean and the cashier started swearing like mad men as glass shattered from the feedback and sparks rained down on them. Dean snapped, “What just happened?”

Dean was carrying packets that said “pie” on them, a six-pack of Dr Pepper, and some Rolos. Cas shrugged. “Watch,” he said, pointing at the fizzling camera.

Dean made a moue of surprise, and he threw ten bucks at the cashier. “Thanks, man,” he said, grabbing Cas by the arm and dragging him behind.

“What do you mean, ‘watch’?” Dean pulled the angel out of the store. Cas tilted his head as if he were trying to figure out why Dean didn't understand simple things, and slowly said, “Person watching.” He frowned, coughed, and tried again. “Person watching me,” he tried to emphasize. The blue eyes peered at Dean, hoping he would understand.

What Dean understood was that Cas was trying to please him by not talking in his head. He sighed and shook his head. “I get it. But those were video cameras. No one was really watching them.”

The angel frowned at Dean, a small pout forming on his chapped lips. “Watching me,” he tried to emphasize again, pointing at himself.

Dean didn't know what to make of the angel's certainty that the camera was looking specifically AT him. His lips pressed together as he held back his doubt, and eventually he just nodded. “Uh, well, you are the angel, so I guess you would know…”

Cas wobbled past him, a tiny smile on his lips. His speaking was improving, since Dean understood him. He would be able to speak fully soon, and then Dean would no longer be angry at him.

Dean saw the smile and swallowed hard, ripping his eyes off Cas’s lips and following the angel closely, in case he fell.

“Dean,” the angel rasped out. “T..tomorrow… I will… be… better.” He said it slowly and carefully, although it still sounded painful. “T-tomorrow… whole.” He sputtered a bit trying to get out the words. “I take us… tomorrow.”

Dean had no idea what he meant, so he just nodded like he understood, and stuffed the food into his duffle. “Stay here, okay?”

He left Cas by the door and found himself a car in the backside of the truck stop. There had been a few people in the separate restaurant section, sleepily eating pancakes and hash browns, so there were a few more cars in the parking lot than just the three vehicles in the employ lot. Dean felt a bit bad The car was an old Ford Focus, and it wasn't much to look at, but as long as it ran and had A/C, he didn't care. He boosted it and drove it over to where Cas was waiting, knowing that the video system was completely blown by whatever the angel had done.

He helped Cas into the car, hopped back in, and threw the car into gear. “We are stopping in like an hour,” he grimaced, stretching his shoulders. “I need a shower and my four hours, and if we don’t stop soon, I’m not getting that.”

Bright blue eyes stared back at him unblinkingly and Dean just took it as a yes as he turned on the radio. Fortunately, there were several good stations and he settled on a classic rock station blaring out Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song.”

“Hell yeah,” he crowed, striking the steering wheel with the heel of his hand, and grinning at the angel. A tiny smile curled in the corner of the angel’s lips as he looked away into the passing landscape, and Dean dug out a Dr. Pepper and a pie for the sugar hit, mostly to wake himself up. He was seriously exhausted.

**CALIFORNIA - L.A.**

The man in the overstuffed office chair watched the video with narrowed eyes, observing the guy with the dark hair and no shoes suspiciously squint into the camera before it shorted out in a shower of sparks. A guy with short light hair behind him had just walked away from him when the lights exploded overhead and knocked out the system. The seated man in a dapper suit, tailored to his body, dangled a tumbler of scotch from his square fingers. He hummed out his interest, sipping at the scotch. Dark eyes full of mischief and plotting closed briefly as he considered what he had seen. 

"So it's true... Fascinating. So when will the walking feather duster be collected? In fact, why isn't someone out collecting him now."

"Well, sir... He's with a Grimm... The guy behind him...?"

"Wha- that... That BRAT is a Grimm?!"

"Yessir. Word is he's Dean Winchester."

There was contemplative pause, then he quietly said, "A Winchester... But not Mary Campbell's boy, is he?"

"A-actually, it caused a buzz at the palace..."

"Fuck. What else?"

"S-sir?"

"You're obviously holding back something, you little snot. What else?"

"Word from our informants is the Prince has sent a Reaper to collect the angel."

The man stopped mid-drink to sigh heavily. "Ahhh... BOLLOCKS."   

Outside of Gallup, Dean finally pulled into a cheap motel. The car they boosted was not in the best shape and it rumbled to a rickety stop in front of the doors. Dean turned down the radio ( _Dive down deep to save my head,_ _You...I think you got the blues too. All that night and all the next, Swam without looking back, Made for the western pools - silly fools!_ ) and leaned over to the angel.

"Stay here while I get us a room," he said, pocketing the keys.

Cas nodded and carefully put his hands in his lap as he waited. He could definitely tell that his grace was coming back faster. The aches in his legs were disappearing and leaving him rather restless. Really, he did not know how Dean traveled so slowly all the time, although the music was a nice way to pass the time, he admitted.

He thought about the current state of his grace, he estimated that another 12 hours might suffice for it to come fully back. When that happened, he could just fly Dean to wherever he was trying to get them. It would be much faster. Dean liked going fast, so maybe he would enjoy flying?

While he contemplated this, Dean returned rather quickly, his face red for some reason, popping open the door and turning the ignition with a snap. "We're in 134."

Castiel had no idea why he was so upset. They pulled up to the door and Dean sighed.

"Just four hours," he groaned as he exited the car. "That's all I need."

He grabbed his duffle out of the back, and opened the door for Cas. "C'mon, angel," he smirked. "This is us."

Cas eyed the guy as he pulled himself out of the car, wobbling only slightly. "I am... coming," he rasped out, his voice still gravelly and heavy, but this was no longer his first time speaking. He wondered if it was permanent?

Meanwhile, Dean was trying to keep his cool.

The motel was like every motel ever except Dean had picked one that was packed. His encounter reminded him he was still far from being a proper adult with the skills to argue with the clerk.

"You got lucky," said the guy with the thin reddish soul patch under his lip. His shaved pate and gauged ears made him look tough, and he handed over the key card without really looking at Dean's information. He didn't even check the license plate for accuracy, just taking the fake card for the deposit without a hitch. "There's just one room left, but it's a single. Nothing else,"

Dean paused his hand from swiping up the key card and slowly repeated, "Uuh... Single?"

The guy didn't even look up. "Yeah, should be okay, right? It's just you and your boyfriend?"

Dean felt the embarrassment try to claw its way up his face but he shoved it down. "He's not my boyfriend. That's why this is going to be awkward."

His sharp tone made the guy look up at him for a moment.

"No? Then here's your chance," He firmly pushed the card towards Dean, smirking slightly. "This is filed under 'not my problem' buddy. Next motel is about another half an hour out. You leaving? No? Right. Enjoy your stay."

Dean opened his mouth to respond, but the guy just quirked an eyebrow at him and turned his back.

"Yeah, well... You... You're... The problem..." He muttered awkwardly at the guy's back as he snapped up the card. "Asshole," he griped and went back to the car.

This meant that he knew when he opened the door, he was going to be confronted by a single bed.

And, when he opened the door, there it was: the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BESTIARY:
> 
> Hässlich: Troll-like Wesen who like bridges and tend to become Reapers. They are physically imposing, able to keep up with a Grimm’s strength, but not as fast as a Blutbad.
> 
> Reapers: Reapers in Grimm are specially trained, contract killers of Grimm. They are part of the Verat, or the organization that watches over and polices Wesen all over the world. Reapers are also called “Grimm Reapers,” as they are generally sent to kill Grimms. This is different from SPN Reapers who are “Angels of Death” more or less… 
> 
> \------------  
> TRANSLATIONS:  
> 1) Hello?
> 
> Yes, it's me. I have found the angel. It's with a Grimm.
> 
> A Grimm? Which one?
> 
> You know him well... the son of Mary Campbell.
> 
> Marie Campbell… that name is so nostalgic. Why does he have the angel? 
> 
> I'm not sure. He's taking it somewhere, probably to Bobby Singer's. Right now, they're in Arizona.
> 
> Follow at a distance. Keep me informed. 
> 
> 2) You leave for the US tomorrow. To Arizona.
> 
> To Arizona?
> 
> Yeah. We have found where the angel is hiding. It's with a Grimm. 
> 
> Another Grimm... it's not Nick Burkhardt...?
> 
> Don't worry. It's just a child; only 18 years old.
> 
> A baby.
> 
> Return with the angel as soon as possible. The Prince demands it.
> 
> Fine. I understand...


	9. I'm Lost Without a Cause

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein the bed is not the greatest boogeyman the duo have to face, demons make an incursion, and many a mud monkey is lost in the middle. Dean and Cas flee, but perhaps not to safety...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't do Enochian. I can do Spanish, French, German, Japanese by myself, and, if I call in favors, Swedish, Chinese, Korean, and Norwegian. 
> 
> Enochian is beyond me. You guys that manage it... bravo. I'm seriously impressed.
> 
> Also, I can't Yiddish. So there's that. I beg everyone's forgiveness. My eyes are bigger than my stomach, but I like it... a lot. 
> 
> ANY WAY, so, BECAUSE I can't Enochian... all things said in it are underlined. Thanks. [EDIT 12/05/14: I am just going to say "they are speaking Enochian" and that's that. The extra formatting is making it look messy and me angry.]

> _And every road that I've taken,_   
>  _Lead to my regret,_   
>  _And I don't know if I'm gonna make it,_   
>  _Nothing to do but lift my head._
> 
> _~ Whitney Houston,[I Look To You](http://youtu.be/5Pze_mdbOK8)_

"What do you want?”

“Well, hello to you too. Is that bounty on the angel still good?”

“Yeah… why? You got something?”

“You pay me upfront and I give up the information.”

“I’m paying nothing unless I know the information is good.”

“And I know how shit works. You pay me upfront, or I sell to another bidder.”

For a stretch of breaths, there was silence, then she said, “Fine. You tell me what I want to know. I’ll extend your contract two years.”

“Five.”

“One,” she intoned darkly.

Another pause. “I’ll sell elsewhere,” he said slowly.

Her laugh was light and breathy. “I’d like to see you do it. Tell you what… one and a half. Going… going…”

There was a hitched breath on the line, and then, “Deal.”

Her smile could be felt through the phone. “Deal. Tell me.”

“They’re at my motel. I put them in room 134. You should hurry.”

“Perfect.” 

Dean walked into the room and looked around. It was typical of cheap motels: TV, bathroom, a small table and a desk, and one double-sized bed. No couch.

Dean had been pinning his hopes on that couch, but of course he was denied. He was going to have to share the bed with the ~~hot and very~~ ~~corruptible~~  ( _no, I didn't think that_ ) angel. He heaved a mighty sigh and walked in, tossing his duffle on the bed, and then spread eagling himself across it. “Fuck, I’m tired,” he groaned. 

Then he realized what he had said and, guilty, looked over at Cas. Cas who was still in the doorway, unsure of what to make of himself.

_Hopefully he didn't hear my swear..._

He watched Cas eye the room, his hands lightly fisted at his side. "You can come in," Dean said, his voice amused and teasing.

Cas blinked at him on the bed and turned to close the door. He looked like a five-year old hoping for approval and Dean snickered. "Come on, Cas," he laughed, slapping the bed next to him hard enough his duffle bag bounced.

Cas slowly made his way to the bed, still uncertain, and awkwardly sat on the edge. The bed dipped with his weight and Dean tried not to laugh with how uncomfortable Cas looked. That's when his own stench hit him like a brick.

_Oh my god, I stink like a road kill skunk!_

He rolled off the bed with a groan and pulled out some clothes from his duffle bag. "I'm going to shower, cuz I'm filthy and smell like ass. Are you okay in here by yourself?"

Cas just stared at him blankly. Dean took that as a yes, and escaped those magical blue eyes.

In the small bathroom mirror, under the flickering light, he could see the darkness under his eyes and the dirt that stuck to him. He sighed and pulled off the nasty t-shirt, kicked off his boots, and shucked off his jeans.

The water pressure was surprisingly good for such a crappy motel, and he thankfully let the water sluice away the crusty sweat, mud, and dust that accumulated from being wind blown in a desert for hours and crawling around in dirt.

He was halfway through washing his hair when that gravelly voice interrupted his thoughts (which were along the lines of _thank god for shampoo_ ) with, "Dean. Hurry. Demons."

Dean sputtered, getting soap in his mouth. "Wa-NOW?"

Outside the bathroom, the sound of the room door being torn off its hinges made Dean nearly fall out of the tub.

" _I'll hold them off if I can._ "

Cas disappeared, and Dean scrambled to get pants on least.

Cas tried hard not to stagger as he reappeared near the bed. He definitely wasn't up for a fight, but he had to protect Dean.

A petite woman with short cut, bright blonde hair grinned at him from the doorway, two other guys behind her. Her hand was on her cocked hip, and she smiled with confidence. All of their real faces were dark and hideous and he felt us grace flare angrily at their presence.

"Well, look at what we for here, boys. A half-charged angel, if even that. My name is Meg, honey, and you and me, well, I think we’re going to be good friends."

Cas just narrowed his eyes at her, pulling his power together. He didn't know if he could take all three of them at his current level and without his angel blade, but he was going take as many as he could out. He pulled his body into a more defensive position between the intruders and the bathroom, ready to smite them all. 

Dean finally chose that moment to stroll out of the bathroom, towel draped over his wet hair, shirtless and with his jeans slung low on his hips, as if nothing was wrong. He had taken a full set of clothing into the bathroom, but he wanted a distraction so he could think of something, some way to escape. He rubbed his head with the towel absently, and then tossed it onto the bed, eyeing the gathering.

Blithely, he said, "Well, Cas, you didn't tell me we had company."

He ignored Cas's slightly confused expression and walked to his duffle, pulling out a shirt and slowly pulling it on nonchalantly in front of his audience. The movement kept the eyes of Meg and her companions on the Grimm's lightly freckled skin, tanned and with a few scars across the ribs and shoulders, pulling the muscles across his chest and stomach. Those muscles were defined on his young body, still smooth and graceful. He was a gorgeous male specimen and he knew it. He turned towards Meg while digging in his bag looking for something. He sat on the edge of the bed, pulling out a pair of socks, trying not to laugh at the tensing of the demons at his actions.

"What can we do for you fellows?"

Meg threw him an amused look and Dean smirked back, both confident.

Cas watched the demons with one eye while trying not be distracted with Dean’s partial nudity. The Grimm was acting as if everything was fine, and Cas was confident things were not, in fact, going well at all. They were outnumbered, and he was low on power and Dean hadn't even known demons existed until a few hours ago. He probably had no defense for them.

“Aren't you the handsome hero,” Meg purred, strolling further into the room. Cas gave her a warning look as she approached Dean, and she tossed her head back and laughed lightly. “Please, Clarence. You don’t have the juice to take all of us out.” Her red lips curled in amusement and she planted herself nearly on top of Dean.

“So, cowboy, you think you can ride this rodeo? A young Grimm like you?” She brushed two fingers across Dean’s jaw, her lips close to his, and Cas moved closer, looking ready to smite her where she stood.

“I… may… surprise you,” Cas gritted out, lightening storms in his eyes as he stepped near them. Meg ignored him, keeping her attention on Dean.

Dean looked straight back at Meg with a smirk, his eyes crinkling in the corners. “I think I’m not only going to ride this rodeo, I’ll come out the national champ, gold belt buckle and all.”

She looked down at him, and they played a brief staring game before she chuckled again and stepped away. “Confident little shit, aren't you? Well, at least you have that going for you.”

“That’s not all I have going for me,” Dean said almost lazily, batting his lashes at her.

Cas felt uncomfortable with the attention Meg was getting, something unpleasant and vaguely painful curling in his chest, when he felt it: more demons arriving.

Both Cas and Meg took a step towards Dean, for different reasons, when Cas’s head snapped to the left, eyes narrowed and hard. “Demons,” he hissed.

Dean looked up at him and muttered, “Aww, maaan..! More?”

In the middle of the room, a slightly pudgy man in a dapper suit appeared with a few men behind him. He surveyed the room with a mischievous grin, and said in an English accent, “Well, well, well. What have we got here? A party and I never received my invitation!”

Meg also snapped around to face the intruder, her face contorted with rage. “Crowley,” she snarled. “What the fuck are you doing here? Don’t you have some old men to suck face with?”

Crowley grinned with delight. “Ah. There’s my whore.” He took a step forward and eyed the angel from a discrete distance. “And here’s the feathered menace, still at half power and ripe for the taking.”

Dean had had enough of this shit. In the doorway, the two men (demons?) were ready to attack, while the new guys (demons?) were pulling out weapons and fingering them with intent to stab. The two leaders were playing chicken with their eyes, and Dean was tired as hell.

“Can you yahoos take this outside? I still need to get my four hours of sleep,” he snapped into the vacuum.

“Cheeky little rugrat, ain't ye,” Crowley chuckled, turning his dark brown eyes towards Dean. Red bled over brown and back again, and he grinned. “I’m Crowley, King of the Crossroad Demons. You are, I believe, Dean Winchester.”

Dean just grinned back, cocky as hell, and said, “I am, and obviously famous. Hooray.”

The dark eyes moved over to Castiel. “As is our glamorous feathered friend.”

Cas didn't reply, his face stony.

“Seriously, what the fuck are you doing here?” Meg moved in front of Crowley, eyes flashing black, long knife in hand.

Crowley eyed the knife and chuckled. “Exactly what you’re doing, you stroppy tart. Claiming the angel for myself.”

“I’m claiming him for Lucifer. You can’t have him, you upstart little shit.”

“You can claim him all you want, but if I take the prize, I can get in his good graces.” He smoothed his lapels. “I need all the leverage I can get to negotiate with Lucifer.”

“Over your dead body,” she hissed. Meg surged forward, her men behind her, when a sound like a lightning strike shook the room. All participants paused mid-movement to assess the danger, eyes narrowed with suspicion.

At this point, Cas sighed, and closed his eyes. He moved closer to Dean and said, “ _Hold on. Whatever you do… do not say anything. No matter what. Do not speak._ ”

Dean opened his mouth to say something, but Cas shot him an angry look. Another boom sounded off, even closer to the motel, and Crowley’s eyebrow shot up in surprise.

"I see I wasn't the only one peeved about not being invited. I do believe that is my cue." He grinned at Cas and Dean and said, “You got off lucky this time, lads. But we'll meet again soon enough.” He and his cronies disappeared in a small puff of smoke, leaving Dean and Cas with Meg and her buddies.

 _What the fuck is going on?_  Dean was confused. Did the asshat only show up to run away... that quickly?

Another boom shook the room, and the smell of burning iron and asphalt struck Dean's nose. He looked to Castiel, who was looking more and more stone faced by the second, the only indication he was unhappy being his hands tightly fisted at his sides. 

Meg was furious. Her face was stretched in a snarl as she turned back to them. “I don’t care what’s going on, or who's showed up. I will have you, Clarence, and leave your little boy toy dead.”

_Boy toy? Me? The f-..._

“ _Dean! Hold on! PLEASE!_ ”

Cas squinted at Meg and rasped out, “Not. Today.” He grasped Dean’s shoulder and all Dean could feel was the sensation of moving through the air before coming to an sudden stop. He collapsed on the ground and panted, “What the hell was that?”

Cas didn't, couldn't respond, passed out on the ground nearby. He looked pale and a bit shocky, and Dean resisted the urge to vomit up the pies he had scarfed to make his way over to the unconscious angel, falling to his knees awkwardly since he had little motor control over the spinning world.

 _I’m going to have bruises later,_ he thought randomly, trying to compartmentalize his emotions like his dad had taught him, and examined the angel with a critical eye.

Cas’s face was extremely white, to the point his lips were blue, his body temperature having dropped like he had been standing in the arctic naked for an hour.  His pulse was weak ( _Do angels even have pulses?_ ) causing Dean to panic. He grabbed Cas’s shoulders with desperate hands, and shook him lightly. “Cas? Castiel? Are you okay?” Unresponsive. Dean sat back on his heels and bit his lip, unsure what to do. “SHIT! What do I do? I don’t know what to do with sick angels!”

“Perhaps I can be of service.”

A man stood behind him, and Dean whirled to his feet to defend them. The man chuckled darkly, stepping closer to them. “What are you going to do, little monkey? How are you going to stop me from looking to my brother with your bare hands?”

His eyes glowed blue white in his dark face, and Dean swallowed reflexively in fear.

“I don’t know, but you ain't touching him,” he growled. He looked around, but everything was black around them. He couldn't see anything at all except the pale Castiel and the man’s eyes. Then, the sound of several thunder strikes caught his ear.

He turned his head a bit. From what he could tell, Cas had somehow moved them out of the motel and to a mesa a few miles away. He had turned just in time to see meteors erupt en masse from the sky, striking the motel with pinpoint efficiency. The motel exploded like it had been hit by a nuclear bomb, the wind strong enough even push him back, even at that distance.

Also watching, the man sniffed in derision, and said, “Stupid little demon scum. Did they really think they could take an angel so easily?”

He turned those glowing eyes back to Dean, and Dean felt a shudder of fear wrack his body for a second before being replaced with anger. “You just totaled a motel. It was a full motel, you asshat! You just killed like a hundred people!”

The man (angel?) smiled in the dark, the sickle of white bright in the total darkness of the unlit desert. “It was just 82 mud monkeys and a few filthy demons. Nothing to get upset about.”

Dean didn't care if he couldn't see and that he was weaponless. He took a step forward to leap at the asshole, when he felt something grab his ankle. He looked down and found Cas holding on to him. “Stop...Dean...my...brother...Uriel.”

He dropped back to his knees next to Cas and moved to cradle his head in his lap. “Cas? Are you okay? Jesus, how the hell did you just move us? What just happened?”

Uriel moved closer until he was standing over them. Dean’s eyes had somewhat adjusted to the darkness and he looked up at the dark man in the suit, his hands loosely tucked in his pockets.

“He transported you with him, although he’s this weak, the fool,” Uriel said mirthlessly. He bent over and touched Castiel’s forehead with two fingers, and suddenly the angel was breathing easier. He then snapped his fingers, and they were all in a bedroom, with Cas on the bed and Dean on the floor.

Dean groaned at the sudden transition, and he glared up at the angel. “What the hell, man? Can’t you even give a warning or something?”

Uriel raised an eyebrow, his nostrils flaring slightly, as if he smelled something gross. Dean realized he had preferred the pure darkness to looking up into Uriel’s contemptuous face. He had a shaved head that held shadowed dark eyes and dark curled lips, all of which screamed disgust at Dean’s closeness. He turned his attention to Castiel, who was groaning a bit, but starting to sit up.

“Castiel, you are to return to Heaven,” he said, the white light starting to flare to life in his eyes. Dean shifted to the balls of his feet quickly, and tried to put himself between the two angels. It was harder than he thought, what with his head ringing, the world still spinning, being weaponless, and in his socks. Castiel’s hand on his shoulder stopped him from doing more, and Dean focused hard on the dark man.

Meanwhile, Castiel moved slowly and carefully, as if he were nursing a hangover. He managed to pull himself into a sitting position, with his feet on the ground. He looked to his brother with lightning in his eyes, and shook his head. “Staying here,” he said firmly, rubbing his temples with the heels of his hands.

Uriel glowered at him. “You are required in Heaven. You must return before things escalate even further. You have gained the interest of Hell’s factions, and the Verrat have loosed assassins on this… plumbing-on-two-legs savage.”

Dean squawked in indignation, and opened his mouth to bitch him out, when Castiel’s hand again shot out to stop him. He subsided, his expression set, ready to just throw himself at the threat. Uriel didn't even acknowledge his existence.

“I understand why you have come to earth, but-”

Castiel looked up at Uriel and electricity crackled out his hands and the edges of his eyes.

“NO,” he growled, his eyebrows snapping together to glare at him. “Found!”

He bit his lip and insistently murmured, “MINE!!" He swallowed hard. "באַשערט” He pounded his chest a couple of times for emphasis, and Dean wondered what they were exactly fighting about.

Uriel blew out a sigh. “You can barely speak like this… heathen ape. Your grace is in shreds, even if I healed most of your physical injuries. You cannot stay here.”

Castiel put his hands to Dean’s ears, which startled the man, and shook his head at him. “ _Do not listen. It will hurt you. Do you understand?_ ”

When Dean nodded, Castiel turned back to his brother, speaking in Enochian.

"Uriel, I have just found him. I cannot leave him. I have my duty too."

Uriel frowned and cocked his head slightly, eyes narrowed. “Brother, you cannot abandon God’s Will. You must return. I do not know what will happen if I leave you on earth.”

Castiel shook his head again. "I do not care. I have to stay. Dean… he is brave. He is mine. My Basherter. He will help me."

Uriel sighed heavily himself, rubbing his forehead with his hand, a curiously human motion. “Castiel, you are tempting the Fates. So be it. Stay here. I will relay this information to the higher ups, but remember you are being watched and hunted on all sides here.”

Castiel removed his hands from Dean’s ears, while Dean looked confused by events.

Uriel finally looked back at Dean and an unkind smile again curled his lips. In English, he said, “Dean Winchester. Son of John Winchester and Mary Campbell. Things are about to get very hard for you. Very hard.” He chuckled darkly, his eyes glowing again, “You will regret Castiel’s decision. I promise you.”

He turned to Castiel. “Brother. Enjoy the room. I’m sure your grace will be replenished to a greater degree in twenty-four hours. Once you leave the room, it will disappear.” Grinning maliciously at Dean, he disappeared. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The word basherter and באַשערט come from Judaism, and I am admittedly no expert on this, except in what a few hours of research have taught me. In other words, if I do something wrong, please correct me. I would rather be corrected than look like an ass.
> 
> באַשערט: (Bashert) Destiny, often used in the context of one's divinely foreordained spouse or soul mate
> 
> Basherter: (male) soul mate 
> 
> (I'm using this because Christian lore starts with Hebrew lore, especially in regards to angels. Also, I just thought it was super-extra fucking awesome. No, really. I went off and told everyone I knew about it, I thought it was so cool. :P )


	10. Lay you down in a Bed of Roses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally safe for the moment, Dean and Cas take a breather, and Cas talks about stuff. Emotional things go down, and there's some smooching in there too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No real notes today, just an apology for taking so bloody long. I was suffering some writer's block about certain scenes and it took forever to get over it. 
> 
> I did something I kind of hate, which is make Cas emotional. I feel it's sort of OOC, but this is a very young Cas so... maybe it's okay. Comment what you think... am I going totally OOC here? = NERVOUS

> _With an ironclad fist I wake up and french kiss the morning_  
>  _While some marching band keeps its own beat in my head_  
>  _While we're talking a_ _bout all of the things that I long to believe_  
>  _About love, the truth, what you mean to me and the truth is_  
>  _Baby, you're all that I need..._  
>  ~ Bon Jovi, [Bed of Roses](http://youtu.be/NvR60Wg9R7Q)

Dean was still processing events from the floor when Cas flopped back onto the bed, looking exhausted. “Um, what just happened,” he asked tentatively. He fell backwards onto his ass, his palms smacking against the white-carpeted floor with small muffled thuds as he leaned back into them.

 “You...heard…” Cas blew out, not opening his eyes, but pulling his arms over his head in a defensive pose.

“He said...the frickin’ Verrat are after us… and factions of Hell?” He rubbed a hand over his face, exhausted. “Is there anything you need to tell me, Cas? I mean, It’s not even been twenty-four hours and I've got a shit ton of Wesen, a bunch of demons, and apparently the Verrat and angels out to gank my ass.”

Cas pulled himself into a ball and replied very faintly, " _I am not inclined to talk about it now. I still need time to recover but Uriel healed most of my physical problems so at least I am physically well._ ”

Dean coughed uncomfortably. "Uh… yeah, your dick brother… Uriel? He said we could stay here...So we're, uh, safe...?"

“Yes.” The raspy voice sounded exhausted. Dean ignored the thrill that charged down his spine at the sound, and stood up and stretched, his adrenaline crashing with the prospect of safety.

“Awesome. In that case, you are going to answer my damn questions tomorrow because my brain hurts and I seriously need my four hours before I try and process any of this.”

“Fine,” came the growled reply.

Dean looked around the room. There was a fancy white-marble table and a wooden-backed chair with white-brocade cushioning, a bowl of fruit, and the big, white bed with Cas rolled into a ball in the middle of it. There were no doors or windows, and, if he were less tired, he might have felt rather claustrophobic about being in a room with no visible means of escape. Uriel (the dick) obviously had not made it with a human in mind. Dean sighed and debated if he should just take the floor when a faint thought trickled in, “ _You can share with me. There is no need for you to sleep on the floor._ ”

For some reason, Dean could almost feel the tinge of bashfulness that came with that statement, and he felt his face start to go red in response. He pushed down the response, chastising himself for acting like a damned girl, and bit his lip with effort. Like an idiot, he looked over at the angel on the bed, and he instantly regretted it. 

Cas was staring at him hopefully from the bed  _Jesus Fucking Christ on a Cracker_ , bright-blue eyes shy. Those eyes shook loose the control Dean had on his blush, but in a different direction. Those eyes peeked up at him from under long dark lashes, while the pink lips he’d already kissed til he was stupid trembled slightly. He was 99.9% sure those eyes and those lips were going to be the death of him. As it was, Dean Jr. was trying get some attention and he couldn't do that. It just wasn't right to have the hots for an ANGEL of the friggin’ LORD.

 His mother would have had a shit fit.

He took a deep cleansing and fortifying breath. “Uh, it’s probably better if I just… stay over here.” The uncomfortable tightening and slight ~~pleasurable~~ chafing in his jeans reminded him that he was going commando under his jeans. He shifted slightly to ease the pressure. _Jeans or just my drawers, then of course my jeans, but...fuck… if I stand up… am I_ allowed _to have a boner in front of him?_

But disappointment dripped off Cas’s face before he managed to get a grip on it and he physically curled back into a fetal position, the picture of rejection. He looked so much like the way Dean originally found him that guilt shattered his attempt to keep his distance. He took another deep breath, and sighed out, “Fine. If we just keep a pillow…” He sat heavily and reluctantly on the edge of the bed, only to leap up when it felt like an electric charge had singed his ass.

“OW! What the…?” Dean touched the bed and, again, it felt he had touched a live wire.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, cursing at Uriel, where ever his prejudice ass was.

Cas had turned towards him the second he  ~~squealed~~ yelled, blinking uncomprehendingly from his position on the bed.

“The bed,” Dean gestured angrily at the fluffy, enticing down contraption of doom. “It's trying to electrocute me.”

A dark eyebrow arched up in surprise, and Cas pressed his hand onto the covers. After a moment, shamefaced, he very quietly apologized, “ _I am sorry, Dean. He… Uriel made it so the static electricity would be too high for human tolerance. I apologize for my brother’s behavior. With my current level of grace, I could not remove it all, but I did get rid of much of it._ ”

Although clearly weary, Cas sat up and sighed out. As he sighed, his large black wings shifted out into the open. They were the gorgeous wings Dean remembered: huge, black, and iridescent. What he hadn't seen before was how the iridescence was a sapphire blue that somehow absorbed the light and emitted it as a soft glow. The primary feathers had small spots of that deep blue, with small fringes of lighter blue. The light he realized, was the same blue as Castiel’s eyes. Dean held his breath to see them up close and personal, and Cas smiled at the look of wonder on the young Grimm’s face. He stretched out a hand and beckoned. “I… will… hold you,” he said slowly, with that small smile.

Dean suspiciously eyed the hand, but still took it. Cas pulled him down and on top of his wing, so he was laying protected from the bed. Dean then found himself enveloped in the huge wings as he lay on the bed, curled face-to-face with Castiel. The feathers were soft and smelled warm and clean, like the smell of rain on dusty earth, lemongrass, honey, and sandalwood. Dean couldn't be blamed for touching them with his cheek and scenting them. They were gorgeous and warm. _I could stay here forever_ , he thought randomly.

Although sleep beckoned him, he found himself just staring at his angel. Cas’s tired face did little to make those blue eyes any less enchanting, and Dean found himself mesmerized by the captured summer skies in those eyes. Castiel took his hand in his and whispered, “Basherter… I will… keep you safe…”

Dean just smiled wearily, not caring that he didn't understand the endearment, and, comforted by the warmth of his angel’s wing, he fell into slumber.

 

When Dean awoke with a chill, he reached out a hand, only to discover he was alone on the bed. A bed that, thankfully, was no longer trying to fry his ass. He sat up, rubbing his face, and blearily looked around.

Castiel was sitting at the table, watching him with guileless eyes. It was downright creepy. “Have you been watching me sleep?”

Cas nodded, a small pleased smile on his lips. He was sporting a ridiculously messy riot of bed hair, but his eyes were bright and alert, and he had better color than when he had gone to bed.

Dean frowned at the waiting angel and yawned, stretching out his cramped shoulders and arms. “Dude, that’s creepy as hell.”

Cas tilted his head like a bird that had heard something interesting but wasn't sure what the point was, and Dean stifled a groan. ( _It was adorable.)_ He eyed the room blearily and asked, “Does this place have a toilet, or…”  _Do angels need to pee? Do they even take shits?_ He threw up his hands, “I don’t know. I don’t even know. I just need a toilet…”

Cas pointed to the back of the room, and there was a door where there hadn't been one last night. Dean slid off the not-burning bed, already missing the feel of feathers under his skin. He looked over at Cas again, the angel sitting primly in the wooden-backed chair, oddly not looking out of place at the white marble table with the giant-ass bowl of fruit despite the wild hair, the faded gray AC/DC t-shirt, the scruffy jeans, and barefeet. In the friggin’ huge bowl of fruit, Dean picked out a couple of melons, a pineapple, a coconut, and some pomegranates. Nothing easy to eat.  _That asshat._

Back on point. “Did you mojo a bathroom for me?”

Cas nodded and pointed to the bathroom door. “It is… inside the...barrier.” The gravelly voice was like an injection of pure aphrodisiac into Dean’s sleepy libido and Dean had to fight the boner that wanted to get into business. He groaned internally and tried thinking of dead road-kill puppies, ghouls chowing down on babies, Sammy having sex...

_Oh, that did it._

That having been taken care of, he realized that Cas was still trying to talk. “Can...not break barrier...or whole thing...dissipates.” Dean nodded, yawning and stretching his way to the toilet. “Yeah, got it.”

He was relieved to see a small shower and even (thank god) toilet paper. He did his business, wished he had his duffle with his toothbrush and a change of clothes. When his stomach reminded him that the last thing he’d eaten were some Hostess fruit pies, he sighed. He opened the door back into the room and found Cas had turned the chair so he was facing the toilet door. Creepier.

Uncomfortable and feeling a blush trying to creep up his face ( _Again. WTF?_ ), Dean rubbed a hand against the back of his neck and said, “Um… Cas… so, what’s the game plan? Are you all healed up, or what? Cuz, y’know, I’m starving here.”

Dark eyebrows snapped together, while storms shifted through cobalt blue eyes. “I am...not ready,” he said gruffly. His hands bunched in his lap, and Dean figured it was Cas’s tell for when he was nervous.

“Well, if your...grace or whatever ain’t all charged up, then what about breakfast?”

Cas bit his lip, uncomfortably bringing them to Dean’s attention. “Barriers… I… cannot do… that…” He said slowly.

Dean threw up his hands, let out a disgruntled gasp, and flung himself onto the bed face first. “I’m going to die,” he grumbled into the fluffy duvet. “No breakfast burrito. No coffee. No Poptarts. Just… death by starvation.”

Guilt flashed over Cas’s face, and he picked up a melon, holding it out to Dean. “Can you… eat this?”

Green eyes peeped out from the fluffiness. “Eetz juz froot,” he grumped sourly, still half buried in the down duvet. Rabbit food was Sam’s deal. He was a bacon cheeseburger with extra onions kind of guy. Still, if that’s what there was to eat…

He turned his head back into the fluffiness, sighed (with difficulty) and suddenly sat up facing Cas. “Fine! I’ll just… deal with it!” He pointed at Cas. “But!! You’re going to talk to me about whatever the hell it is situation that’s about to get me ganked!”

A complicated expression flitted over Cas’s face. He bit his bottom lip and worried it a bit. He opened his mouth to say something, but then he snapped it shut, a blush rushing up from his neck and leaving the tips of his ears red.

_Who knew an Angel of the Lord could look so adorably embarrassed,_ he thought. He chuckled that Cas would hear that, but when he looked at the angel, he was still blushing and fiddling with the melon in his hands.

Those electric blue eyes peeked up at him from under those long dark lashes, and Cas touched his throat and coughed lightly. “I can… try to speak… more… but to speak… at length…”

Dean didn't know what the angel was implying. The angel frowned and stood up, walking over to the human with caution. “We must...touch lips again…” he rasped out, touching his own lips tentatively.

Bright green eyes flew open and flicked down to the soft pink lips that had occasionally distracted him from the job at hand. Cas seemed to realize Dean was staring at his lips, and they parted slightly with his sudden intake of surprised breath, the tip of his tongue peeking out and swiping at his upper lip nervously. Dean nearly found himself forgetting about food, but his stomach protested being overruled and growled angrily into the sudden silence between them.

Dean looked mortified for a second and then laughed. “Ah, I see,” he chuckled. He pointed at the melon in Cas’s hands, a small smirk on his face. “But I seriously I think I need to eat something before my stomach tries to eat itself.”

Cas frowned a tiny bit, concern written between his eyebrows, and he quickly held out the melon. “Do not… let that happen…”

Dean wanted to laugh at the genuine worry on Cas’s face, but his stomach made another loud proclamation and he just snatched the melon out of Cas’s palms. “Only problem is that my duffle had a lot of my knives, and the only thing I took into the shower was this little pig sticker.”

He pulled a switchblade out of his backpocket. “Doesn’t do much, but it’s something in a pinch.” He pressed the switch and the blade sprang into view. The six-inches would have been impressive to anyone other than the Grimm, and he sliced into the melon efficiently, carving out a slice. He bit into it with glee as it squirted juice around his mouth and dripped down his chin.

“Oh my god, this is heaven,” he moaned around the mouthful of cool fruit. He could feel the  angel watching him with big eyes, how he tracked every time he licked his lips to catch the juices, and how Dean swiped at it with the back of his hand. Dean grinned at him around a mouthful of fruit, and Cas just blinked at him and tried to smile back when he pushed the melon at him.

“I am okay.”

Dean half shrugged, half nodded, devouring the melon like it was the last bit of food on earth. He threw himself back on the bed, sighing. His stomach wasn't full, but it was better. At least it wasn't trying to eat its way through his spine anymore.

He closed his eyes and briefly considered his life. In like twenty-four hours, he had managed to almost get killed several times. And, although his Winchester blood gave him a small advantage, he wasn't a full-fledged Grimm yet; he lacked full control over his physical strength, and he didn't have “the vision” like his family. He wouldn't get that until he matured. He suddenly wished he was a girl, since most female Grimms matured at 14-16 years old. Even at 18, he was way too young and he knew it. He wouldn't completely mature until he was in his twenties. And now, he was in a situation where he could have used those powers. Already he had been overpowered several times, and his nearly-dead angel had had to save him. That wasn't cool. Even worse, he still didn't know what he was getting into. All he knew was Sammy was still out in the world, John was who knows where, several creatures he hadn't even known existed were trying to kill him, and a  ~~sexy fucking~~ angel, who had apparently been held captive by a Wesen carnival, wanted to keep kissing him.

He reckoned things could be worse. At least he was wasn't dead yet and he had all his limbs. And there was the  ~~sexy fucking~~ angel to keep him company.

He sat up quickly, swiping his forearm across his face to get rid of any stickiness, and grinned cockily at the angel. Cas was still just standing there, looking a little lost in the t-shirt that was just a bit too big for him, his hair a mess, like he had had hands running through it, and watching him patiently with those blue eyes.

“Okay, let’s do this,” he said, holding a hand out to the angel.

Cas eyed the hand uncertainly, and Dean waggled his fingers at him encouragingly. “Go on,” he said, “Take it.”

Cas took his hand and Dean slowly pulled him in, pulling him into his lap so that Cas was straddling him, chest to chest, and looking down at him. It was surreally hot, even with Cas looking vaguely uncomfortable and unsure about what was going on.

“Dean… I do not know…”

Dean wrapped his arms around his angel and tilted his head up, smiling into those baby blues encouragingly. 

“Lay it on me, sweetheart,” he grinned, tilting his chin up and closing his eyes.

Cas looked down at the young Grimm, and he realized that Dean wanted him to kiss him like that. He felt a little uncomfortable, but it was more because his vessel was feeling weird. The arms around his body were warm and comforting; he recognized that. But more than that, Dean beneath him, waiting for a kiss, felt… inviting and invigorating. He didn't know what the feeling was that burned in his vessel’s veins and made his breath quicken.

His hands trembled slightly as he took the moment to really look at his Grimm. The smattering of freckles across his nose was lovely, each one a new star map for him to track. The long dark lashes against the tanned skin were beautiful fans that hid his greatest treasure, the green eyes that reminded Cas of the forests of Europe, all deeply layered greens, while the sparks of gold in them glowed like sunlight breaking through the foliage.

The lashes fluttered open as he sat in Dean’s lap, and he marveled at his Father’s work. He was sure that, if he had been human and doubted in God, this man’s eyes would make him a believer. He had rarely seen anyone so full of love and life, and, beneath him, was the most beautiful example of God’s hand on earth.

He did not know what it was coursing through his body. The insistent  _want_ didn't come of with a manual. He only knew he wanted all of this man, his Basherter. He wanted to touch him with his grace and make him his forever. He wanted to touch every part of him and carve the memory of this man’s flesh into his heart.

He dragged his fingers across the man’s face, memorizing the smooth skin, the number of freckles, the way his eyes wrinkled at the side when he smiled, the soft plump lips that flushed red as he traced his hand over them, and the pink tongue that peeked out from between them to lick at his fingertips.

“C’mon, Cas,” he said, the green eyes shadowed with something Cas didn't recognize. The arms at his back loosened, and a hand touched his face with soft-feathery caress and he leaned into the palm without thinking, a small hum of pleasure escaping him as he rubbed his cheek into the lightly-calloused hand.

“Cas…” Dean voice had dropped in tone, and it sounded vaguely strangled. Cas opened his eyes and found Dean looking up at him with something close to desperation on his face. “Cas… are you going to do this or not. I’m dyin’ here.”

Cas tried to blink away whatever was making him dizzy and hot, looking down at Dean’s lips. He remembered how Dean had surprised him with that first kiss and he wondered… would he do it again?

He leaned down and gently pressed his lips against Dean’s, sending the small thread of grace out though his lips into Dean. But, as Cas thought, the young Grimm didn't stop there. He closed his eyes and pressed his lips against Cas’s again, a little more insistently, and then again, and then again.

Cas didn't mind, not at all.

Each time was like a spark of  _want_ had exploded inside his chest, spreading the heat throughout his body. Dean slipped the tip of his tongue between his lips, and Cas opened himself to the Grimm, wanting to taste him too. The tongue sought his out, even as he felt Dean’s hands move under his shirt and touch his back. He shuddered; his back was sensitive where his wings met his shoulders, and he wasn't used to being touched there. Beneath him, the young Grimm shifted his hips, pressing his loins against his body. He heard Dean mutter, “Holy shit,” before rolling and pushing Cas down onto the bed beneath him. He looked into Cas’s eyes, and whatever he saw, made him swallow hard before pushing away. Cas didn't understand the disappointment that filled him, the heat from his  _want_ swelling and then subsiding in the face of Dean’s pushing him away.

Cas heard him hiss, “Fuuuuck.”

“Dean..?”

Dean turned those deep green eyes on him, pupils blown wide, lips red and slick with saliva. A flush burned under his skin and Cas could smell his arousal. He didn't know what to do, so he sat there, analyzing his  _want_ the way he analyzed all his human emotions. Dean swallowed hard again, his breath coming in small pants between his lips.

“I… uh… yeah. I’ll be right back.”

Dean fled into the bathroom. Cas sat on the bed, not sure what he had done. He heard Dean think, “Holy fucking hell, that was hot!” and “He’s an angel of the Lord, Dean! You can’t fuck him!” but then Cas realized that these were the sort of thoughts that had Dean blowing up at him before and he withdrew into himself.

Thirty minutes later (and apparently a shower later), Dean emerged from the bathroom, and Cas was still on the bed. His hair was still tousled and he sat cross-legged, his blue eyes innocent, and head tilted as he asked in his gravelly voice, “What is ‘fucking’?”

Dean sputtered helplessly for a moment, his eyes wide with surprise, and a new blush of pure embarrassment flaring over his face. "Jesus, Cas... where di—" He stopped mid-sentence, rubbed a hand over his face, and sighed deeply. "Never mind, I have an idea..." He rubbed a hand at the back of his neck, his face still slightly red, as he walked over to the chair and took a seat facing Cas.

"Never mind that. Cas, I have a problem here." He motioned at his clothes, a disgusted look on his face. "Actually, I have a lot of problems. I'm wearing yesterday's clothes, I have no drawers, and I would love to eat something more substantial than a friggin' fruit salad, if you get my drift?"

The blank look in the angel's eyes informed Dean that, no, he had no idea. "Cas, I need my stuff. I need real human food. And I definitely need some underwear."

Cas's eyes cast down to where his hands were semi-balled in his lap, the fingers playing with the edge of his shirt. " _I can't break the barrier, Dean. I'm not quite... ready. I'm maybe a bit over half recovered. I can't protect you like I want."_ Blue eyes snapped up and he smiled lightly. _"But I can do something about your clothes._ " 

He waved his hand, and suddenly the grody feeling of wearing dirty clothes went away. Dean sniffed the shirt cautiously, but he smelled nothing: no dirt, no sweat, nothing. "Did you just magically clean my clothes," he asked with wonder.

Cas nodded, his face hopeful that he had done the right thing. Dean wasn't sure why, but it was funny. Way too funny that an Angel of the Lord was looking like a hopeful puppy dog and that he had wasted mojo on Dean's laundry. He started laughing, and he couldn't stop, the image of a puppy with wings doing his laundry just rolling through his imagination on repeat. He laughed until his stomach started to hurt and tears started coming his eyes.

"Oh my god, I haven't laughed that hard in a long time," he chortled, wiping at his eyes. Cas didn't look like he understood why Dean was laughing, but he still smiled at Dean, eyes sparkling.

"Ah, but seriously, Cas," he chuckled, "Aside from mojoing my clothes clean, having wings, and apparently having the power to call down a meteor storm, what else can angels do?"

The smile slid away from Cas's face, and he again focused on his hands in his lap. " _Angels can do a lot of things. Some angels, like Uriel, can call down meteors. I cannot do that; I do not have that sort of power. Michael, Gabriel, and Ramiel can do bigger things than that. All I can do are things like heal. I can exorcise. I can fly and, sometimes, I can even bend time."_

He started picking at the edge of the t-shirt again. Dean ignored his urge to stop him and save his shirt.

" _We are not omnipotent or omniscient."_   He shrugged, looking up at Dean through his lashes. " _At least, I am not. My big brothers might be a different story."_

"Uh, what's omni...whatever? You know what, never mind. You're not all powerful, I get it. But your older bros might be... right?"

Cas nodded, eyes still downcast. He looked so small sitting there, it made Dean feel protective of him. He took a deep breath in. "Okay, so why are you here? I mean, your dick brother made it clear you weren't supposed to be here. What's up with that?"

Cas kept his eyes down, a frown tight on his face, his knuckles white as he balled his hands into fists. " _I do not want to explain that yet_ ." 

"Ah, okay." And it was. Some things took time, and he wasn't one for chick flick moments. This was awkward as it was, and he didn't want to push, but things were trying to kill him. "So back to the issue at hand... why are they after us?"

" _I do not know why the Verrat is after us. I believe, however, there is a competition in Hell for Lucifer's favor. They are competing to release Lucifer from The Cage and may think I am a viable source of power. I...disobeyed...to come to earth. They may want to see if he can convert me to their side."_

Dean gawked and sputtered, "Lucifer? THE Lucifer? As in  _Satan_ ?"

Cas nodded slightly in acknowledgment. " _I am only guessing that is their purpose. My... presence... on earth seems to be stirring up trouble."_

Unhappiness etched itself onto Cas's face, and he looked like he might cry. Dean found he didn't like that, and moved to sit next to the angel. He had tried to avoid being too close so he could keep his hands off the angel, but Cas's despair at the situation ate through his resolve faster than Sam could eat through a veggie pizza. 

"It's okay, Cas. I'll protect you." Dean pulled Cas into his arms, enjoying how the angel burrowed into the warmth of his neck and wrapped his arms around the young Grimm. "I mean, I know you're like powerful and stuff, and I know I'm not all that strong, but I'll work on getting strong so I can help you. I won't let you suffer again."

Cas sniffled into Dean's neck, and a muffled, "Okay" came rumbling out from under there. Dean thought for a moment, trying to untangle the ways they could be caught, and then he ask tentatively, "Cas, the Wesen circus... how did they catch you? Do you remember? Can they do it again?"

" _Dean, the Wesen caught me because of a spell."_ He shuddered and subconsciously pulled himself closer to Dean. " _It was a beacon of sorts... It... it had to do with why I came to earth. And, no. I do not think it will work any more._ "

"Huh? Why?"

He felt Cas shake his head, his fingers pulling at the back of Dean's shirt, trembling like he was afraid. 

_Cas is afraid to tell me. What the fuck? What could it possibly be that he's afraid to tell me? He's a powerful angel and he's afraid to talk to me..?_

Cas whimpered and clung to Dean. "Do not... leave me." He suddenly croaked into Dean's shoulder.

His face pale, he looked up at Dean, eyes red with crying, but still unbelievably blue. Dean didn't know what to do. He was never any good at feelings and words. So he kissed his angel again, gently and chastely, pushing thoughts of safety and protection at him.

His voice hard with conviction, he whispered, "I won't leave you, angel."

He was still holding Cas when he eventually fell asleep in his arms, tears drying on his cheeks, while Dean pressed reassuring kisses onto his head.

_No one can take my angel._

The thought of someone taking his angel away made him sick to his stomach. In such a short time, Cas had him wrapped around his little finger, had made him possessive of those blue, blue eyes and gorgeous dark wings. He brushed back the dark hair on Castiel's forehead, dropping a kiss on it, and clung to him as they laid on the bed, and sleep overtook him too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from Bon Jovi. It's one of five songs I used to write this chapter, including Led Zeppelin's "All My Love," Roxette's "Listen to Your Heart," Tori Amos's version of "Creep," and Heart's "Barracuda." If anyone is interested, I can post the playlist for this story later.
> 
> I also need to thank a LOT of people for looking over the kissing scene... I get so nervous when I do those, since I don't get a lot of feedback here...


	11. I Think I'm Drowning, Asphyxiated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Most of the factions weigh in. Dean gets a bloody nose and a hungry tummy. Cas is powered up. Let's go, let's go!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, factions mean a ton of notes. Gomen.
> 
> We are going to pretend that Pegel isn’t German when it comes to measurements, since I feel the conversion is weird at this point in time. I mean, throwing in GERMAN, not so weird. Throwing in the metric system at this late date: weird. Any way, for everyone else in the entire planet, here’s the conversion, more or less: 177 cm = 5’10” // 182cm = 6’  
> (Pegel is German. Europe = metric system: It was for his characterization, and then I realized it was a hassle.)
> 
> **** TW: panic attack and nightmares. **** 
> 
> There is some German, but, again, the meaning is implicit and the translation is not needed. I’ll add the translation at the end, for shits and grins. Much love to my friend Stefan who translated to German, even though it was really late in Germany (5am; dude, why were you UP??). <3 <3 My buddy!! (I’m uber lazy. I just don’t want to translate…)
> 
> BESTIARY AT THE END

 

> _I think I'm drowning, asphyxiated,_  
>  _I wanna break this spell that you've created,_  
>  _You're something beautiful, a contradiction,_  
>  _I wanna play the game, I want the friction._
> 
> _You will be the death of me._  
>  _Yeah, you will be the death of me._  
>  _Bury it, I won't let you bury it._  
>  _I won't let you smother it._  
>  _I won't let you murder it._
> 
> _Our time is running out,_  
>  _Our time is running out,_  
>  _You can't push it underground,_  
>  _You can't stop it screaming out._
> 
> _I wanted freedom, bound and restricted,_  
>  _I tried to give you up but I'm addicted,_  
>  _Now that you know I'm trapped, sense of elation,_  
>  _You'd never dream of breaking this fixation._
> 
> _~ Muse,[Time is Running Out](http://youtu.be/QfwEUzzDtzo)_

**GALLUP, NEW MEXICO**

Pegel was angry.

He had flown out to Phoenix, rented a car, and managed to follow the trail of the angel to the shit “city” of Gallup, New Mexico. Now, he found himself at a dead end.

He stood in front of the giant hole in the ground that used to be a motel, anger just beating through him with every breath he took in. It smelled like soot and melted asphalt. There was nothing else left to smell, but, curiously, the damage didn't extend past the motel parking lot. The gas station not 20 feet away from the parking lot was unscathed, as was the Taco Bell/KFC hybrid that it shared a lot with. Only the motel had been obliterated off the face of the earth, as if it had been particularly targeted. He heard thin whispers among the people about a bomb, but the damage was definitely inward, and there were large bowling ball-sized rocks embedded in what was left of the parking lot.

He snorted, feeling restless and angry standing outside the police tape, and he ran his not-too-great troll vision over the crowd. He picked out two people in suits who were also eyeing the scene with more displeasure than grief, and glared at them. One of them looked over, his dark eyes narrowing at Pegel, and he woged into a Hundjäger, his lips curling back aggressively.

Pegel chuckled inwardly. The Verrat had sent out their foul hound dogs to scent out the angel. That was fine. He was more concerned with the Grimm.

The woman next to the hound looked up at her partner’s growl with surprise, and then followed the line of his belligerence to Pegel. Her light brown eyes grew wide in her pale oval face, and he watched her eyes pale to a lime green as she peered at him.

 _Steinadler_ , he thought. A very strange pairing, a bird and a hound. At least, it seemed so, until she put a restraining hand on the dark man’s forearm. The man snarled at the touch, but woged back to his human face.

 _She must be his controller_ , he thought. _Well, a dog_ would _need a handler._

He started to move to the back of the crowd, a cruel smile ghosting over his heavy lips. He could kill them both with ease, his thick skin and heavy bones natural armor. Of course, they had the advantage of speed, but that didn't worry him. What were they going to do? Run around him to death?

The woman was fairly tall, reaching his shoulder easily, making her at least 5’10” in height. Her dark brown hair was cut very short, and she wore her dark suit with the white button up with ease. She looked like she was in her forties, but it was hard to tell with Steinadlers.

In contrast, her partner was taller than she was, easily 6’ tall, and nearly to his chin. His eyes were accusatory and a smirk curled his lips. Pegel was considering ripping it off and shoving it up the hound’s ass when the woman stepped between them. She smiled faintly, trying to put him at ease, her companion behind her.

“Well, well, well, what have we here?” She didn't reach out for a handshake, and he didn't offer one. “Looks like someone’s out for blood.”

Pegel said nothing, just smiled at her pleasantly.

Behind her, the hound snapped, “Who the fuck brought you in?”

Pegel shifted his gaze to the hound, while his partner hissed, “Shut up, Gordon! This isn't a problem! _Think_ for once!”

She turned back to Pegel, her eyes wide and innocent, and Pegel _felt_ himself relent a bit. “I have a contract on a Grimm,” he conceded grudgingly, his thick German accent hanging in the air between them.

Startled, the woman woged briefly, revealing dark brown feathers and a beak-like nose that looked remarkably like a golden eagle. Her eyes flashed yellow-green again, and he was surprised that, for a split second, she appeared nervous. She woged back to her charming human face, and nodded at him. “We’re looking for someone too.” She looked up at him through her lashes. “It’s probably with that Grimm. You’re presumably like us, though. At a dead end?”

The hound snorted, and turned to stare at the giant charred pit. The woman smiled harmlessly, spreading out her hands in front of her to entreat him, the Verrat Ahnenerbe tattoo of eight interlocking daggers with a ribbon and the ninth dagger clear on her palm.

Pegel raised his eyebrows in surprise that they had sent out the elite Verrat Ahnenerbe. The angel must be especially important.

“I tell you what… how about a partnership? I’ll give you my card, and you can call us if you find anything? And when we find something, we can contact you..?”

The hound reeled around angrily, woging instantly, his eyes burning with anger, aggressively starting to surge towards her. “Damn it, Jody! You can’t just —”

Without even looking, she stalled him with her hand, her eyes still on Pegel. Her features were soft, and he again felt himself giving in. He dug into his pocket and handed over a dirty and bent business card. “You can call me there.” He woged, finally, a hungry grin curling over his lips as he looked down at the bird and hound, his teeth and ears pointed, his skin the faint yellow-green of his people. Patience was a particular troll skill, but so was stubbornness.  “If you find anything,” he huffed.

She nodded as if interacting with Hässlich was normal for her, and it might. She was Verrat after all.

She reached into her own pocket and pulled out a sleek silver card holder, snapping it open, and slipping out a bright white card. Her name (Jody Mills) and a phone number were all that was printed on there, although the Verrat sigil was faintly embossed in the corner.

He gave it a cursory look before shoving it into his pocket, and, giving a nod to the pair, wandered off to his rental car. He could feel their stares as he walked off.

He slipped his hand into his other pocket and fished out a small disposable phone. He snapped open the flip phone with a flick of his wrist, pressing two for fast dialing. It rang twice and a soft female voice purred, _“Hast du sie gefunden?”_

_“Nein, sie sind weg, Bela.”_

_“Weg? Meinst du... tot?”_

_“Nein, einfach verschwunden. Das Motel ist zerstört. Es gibt keine neuen Hinweise.”_

_“Das ist nicht gut. Was soll ich Yannick erzählen?”_

_“Noch nichts. Halt für mich die Augen offen und berichte mir früh wie möglich.”_

_“Verstanden.”_

He snapped the phone closed and thought hard. Thinking was not his species strong suit, but the trail wasn’t only cold, it was burned and buried. He was pretty sure they had escaped the incident, but that was just pure instinct, like a sensor for Wesen hiding in a crowd. Really, as he had told Bela, the best he could do right now was wait for her to find a clue through the media and Internet. Bela had ears all over the world and otherworld, and her network would make the NSA weep with jealousy. Still, the Grimm was gone. Where did he go that even a Reaper couldn’t find him?

 

  _ **It is dark. So dark. I want to fly. Why can I not fly? My wings will not move...are they broken? It hurts. It hurts so badly. Why can I not heal? Wait, is it the humans? They must not know we exist. They cannot know! Oh Father, forgive me. Is this my punishment for leaving? Why did You make me this way? Father! Why do You not hear me? The pressure, it burns. It hurts so much. NO! My angel blade! NO!! My flesh! PLEASE STOP! NO!! My wings! MY WINGS…**_

 “HEY! WAKE UP!!”

Cas flung himself up, wildly swinging. He felt his wing hit something, followed by the sound of something hitting the ground and a grunt of pain. He opened his eyes, breath panting through parted lips and his bangs glued to his forehead by sweat. His whole body trembled, and tears were squeezing out the edges of his eyes. He tried to orient himself, but it took him a moment to realize he was not in the cage.

“Cas.” Said a voice somewhere to his left. “Are you awake now?”

Castiel gasped and leaned over to see Dean sprawled on the floor. He had a burgeoning black eye, and his lip was split. Blood was trickling out his nose, and all of a sudden Cas had a sickening suspicion of what happened.

“Did… Did I _hurt_ you?” The notion of hurting Dean, even unintentionally, made him sick, and he clasped a hand to his mouth to stop himself from throwing up. As it was, he gagged into his palm, pushing away from the edge of the bed with his feet until his back was leaning against the headboard. He looked at his hand as if he was not sure it was his, and felt even sicker when he saw Dean’s blood on the knuckles.

Dean slowly stood up, like it pained him, and huffed, “I’ve had worse. Plus you were dreaming. It’s not like you can control that stuff.”

He delicately touched the area around his eye, and couldn't help but flinch at the pain. “You have a mean backhand,” he chuckled, rubbing the back of his hand against his nose to swipe at the blood.

But, although Dean was used to taking hits (and, in fact, Cas had managed to whack him in almost the exact same spot his dad had smacked him, so the throb was deep and even worse than before), he wasn't used to seeing someone look so upset about it. Especially not when they had no control over their actions like Cas.

They had fallen asleep holding on to each other ( _cuddling_ , his brain supplied most unhelpfully), and he had awoken to Cas’s fist knocking him off the bed while moaning, hitting him right in the face. When he had picked himself up off the floor, Cas’s thrashing had gotten worse, with his wings flaring out from his back and beating at the walls and bed. Dean wouldn't have thought it, but getting hit with giant wings was almost worse than getting hit with a closed fist. He took a few blows trying to get close enough to shake Cas. The worse blow was the one right before he had finally opened up his eyes, the wing flaring up and out, managing to hit Dean full on in the chest, the edge of the wing snapping up into his face and hitting him across the nose and mouth. The strength and surprise of the blows had thrown him off the bed with an undignified grunt of pain.

Now, Cas was curled by the headboard, arms wrapped around his body, and a hand clapped over his mouth, looking stricken. Even his wings were still out, curled protectively around him in a dark cocoon. Dean tried to hold in the sigh of weariness that wanted to escape him. His being hit was no big deal. Happened all the time. But for Cas, it seemed like the end of the world. _Damn, is Cas going to be like this after a fight?_

Dean crawled back onto the bed and sat on his knees in front of Cas. The angel was staring at his bruises with horror from between the protective curtains of his wings, and Dean really did let out a sigh. He reached out a hand and pushed back Cas’s wing where he was trying to hide his face. Fear and self-loathing poured out of the angel’s eyes, and he shook his head and, this time, pulled at the hand Cas had clapped over his mouth.

“Cas, I’m okay. Sure, I got a bit bruised, but I’m okay. Really.” He pulled the hand over to his face, and, with Cas’s fingers, touched the side that didn't ache. Sadness flickered over Castiel’s face as he pulled his hand away from Dean’s grasp, and lightly touched Dean’s bruises. Dean winced at the pain, and Cas’s feathers ruffled with anxiety, the sadness on his face more pronounced.

“Sorry,” he said softly, his head tilting slightly as he cupped Dean’s face with his palm. A warmth spread through Dean’s face, a tingling that bled through his skin, under his skin, and spread through his body. It smoothed out the pain, tingled over though his veins, and settled in his stomach.

It was a pleasant feeling that made the air puff out of his lungs in a relaxed exhalation, and everything stopped hurting. It made him feel good, and he regretted when Cas took back his hand. It must have only been a second or two, but the relief from hurting was so deep, it could have been hours.

“What was that?” He asked thickly. He was feeling sleepy now that his body had stopped hurting and everything felt fine.

“My grace. I healed you.” Cas’s wings had moved backwards, and away from his shoulders, no longer protective. He looked over Dean carefully, as if he might have missed something, and Dean couldn't help himself. He smiled at the angel and mumbled, “Your grace feels super nice.”

Cas did his head tilt thing, like he was trying to figure out Dean, and was failing. “Are you okay?”

Dean chuckled, and ruffled Cas’s hair affectionately, moving to sit next to him by the headboard. “Yeah, I feel great now. Thanks, Cas!” Tucking his knees under his chin, and wrapping his arms around them, he watched Cas’s vaguely confused but pleased expression and chuckled, “I’m fine. I can- I _have_ taken worse than a couple of smacks from a freaked out angel.”

Cas lost his pleased expression and somber look settled onto his face. He snuggled into Dean's side, nudging his way like a cat under Dean's arm, and sharing his warmth. "You should not be," he said sadly, nuzzling Dean's shoulder and pulling his wing over Dean’s shoulder to shelter them.

Dean smiled slightly, tilting his head so his chin was touching Cas’s dark hair lightly. The smell of ozone, of rain on dusty earth tickled his nose, and he breathed it in. “I’m a Grimm.” He said after a moment. “I’m pretty sturdy.”

Cas shook his head into Dean’s shoulder. “You should NOT be.”

He said it stubbornly, and Dean just hugged him tighter for a moment. “I should be asking you… are _you_ okay? This is the second time you’ve had nightmares.”

Cas turned away from him, burying his face into his knees for a moment, and Dean heard a muffled, “I am fine. I do not want to talk about it.”

Dean hummed and nodded. Dubiously, he replied, “Fine, I get it. But you’re going to have to talk about all these secrets sooner or later, man.”

 Cas didn't respond; he just moved back under Dean’s arm, as if he were seeking his warmth.

 After a while of comforting ( _cuddling_ , his brain reminded him), though, his very human body (Grimm or not) let out a protesting growl, and prompted him that a growing boy needed more than hugs and melon to survive. “Um, Cas?” He rubbed his stomach and sheepishly asked, “Are… can you get us food now?”

 Cas owlishly eyed him, and, when Dean’s stomach let out a growl like a pissed-off grizzly, Dean chuckled nervously and rubbed the back of his neck. His hand touched soft feathers as he did so, but his anxiety about his stomach making practically prehistoric dinosaur roars distracted him from the pleasure. He coughed into his other fist, and slid his eyes away. “Yeah, so… food?”

 A small smile tucked into the corner of Cas’s face, faintly, like a shadow, and he nodded. “Today, I can do it.” The warm gravelly voice made Dean feel something other than hunger for food, and he blamed his puerile eighteen-year old body for hearing the words “do it” and turning it into a sexual innuendo that made his dick do an interested tarantella. He tried to power it down, but the proximity of Castiel’s heat and scent were trying to clog up his mental capacity. He found himself staring at those lips again, and the celestial blue eyes suddenly darkened as Castiel’s pupils dilated with desire.

 Just as Dean was about to give up and go for it (YEAH! DO IT! WHO CARES IF HE’S AN ANGEL?), his stomach let out a protest that sounded like a herd of lions were talking to each other across the African plain, and not even punching himself lightly in the gut stopped the outcry of his teenage-boy body for a hamburger with cheese and extra onions. Maybe even two. And pie.

They both looked down at Dean’s stomach, one with curiosity, the other with consternation and a lot of embarrassment. “I… really need to eat,” Dean said apologetically.

Cas nodded, and Dean found himself laughing a bit brokenly to hide his embarrassment.

“I can do it.” Cas said it with confidence, and he actually did smile when he took Dean’s hand.

The sense of movement was still jarring to Dean. He found himself nearly falling when they suddenly stopped moving. He breathed in deeply to stop the feeling of vertigo, and realized that all he could smell was the scent of something being burnt to a crisp and dirt. At least, his brain supplied, we are outside.

The bright blue New Mexico sky, as clear and blue as Castiel’s eyes, stretched out before them.

_We’re back on top of the mesa._

Beneath them, Cas pointed and Dean turned to look. The motel was completely gone. There was a black gaping hole in the earth, and, if he looked closely enough, it was still smoking.

“Jesus, it was for real… that asshat really did blow the motel with all those people in it!”

Cas didn't respond, but he walked over to the other edge and pulled something out of a cluster of yuccas. It was Dean’s duffle bag. 

Dean let out an inhuman yelp of joy, and grabbed it like it was a long lost relative. “Oh my god, Cas! You saved my duffle!! Holy SHIT! My guns are still in it! My 9MM!!” He pulled out the gun and hugged it briefly, before humming happily and shoving it into the back of his pants’ waist.

" _I barely managed to take it with us, but... when we got out, Uriel found us and I was helpless..."_ Cas looked pleased with himself, and Dean just grinned at him. He grabbed Cas with his other arm, hugging the angel awkwardly, and just feeling ecstatic about the duffle. “Aw, man, I _totally_ thought this was gone!”

Cas smiled back, and Dean couldn't help but drop a fast kiss on his lips. “You’re the best, angel!” He grinned at Cas, and, although Cas didn't look like he entirely understood, Dean didn't mind. He released Cas to dig into the duffle. “Man, my cell phone is in here too! Thank god. I should call Bobby!”

Cas cocked his head and asked, “Bobby?”

Dean nodded pulling out his phone from the bag and then swearing lightly as the battery was dead. “Yeah, my Uncle Bobby. He’s like a father to me. I really need to talk to him.”

Cas nodded, gripped Dean’s shoulder, which surprised him, and said, “ _Bobby. I can see him._ ”

When Dean blinked and the world stopped spinning, he was in Bobby’s kitchen, where the old man had dropped his Cheerios and was pointing a shotgun at them. The milky mess was spreading across the floor, as Bobby snapped, “What the hell? Dean, is that you, boy?”

Dean smiled sheepishly and replied, “Yeah, sorry, Bobby. I didn't realize we were taking the angel express.”

He should have realized, of course, that Bobby, being the paranoid old coot he was, would  assume that Cas was the reason for all the trouble and shoot him with both barrels.

 

**CALIFORNIA - L.A.**

“I almost had that glorified pigeon.” Crowley snarled into the bubbling bowl of blood that connected him to Hell’s phone network. He was seated at his desk, the bowl sitting in the center of the dark stained wood, a glass of scotch near to hand. The blood’s original owner was tied to an old wooden chair, his blond-haired head tucked into his chest, and all of him 100% dead. Crowley was a master at bleeding people: not a drop of his ex-tax attorney's blood had touched the priceless Persian rug on top the glowing wooden floor.

Crowley was not having a pleasant conversation, and tension was tight around his shoulders and between his eyes. The bowl bubbled back at him, and he scowled fiercely. “I don’t bloody well CARE what AZAZEL wants! I've already had a nasty little run in with that sycophantic little tart Meg, and then some twat went off and told all of Heaven we were swooping in on the charming bit of feathery fool. I'm saying that there's a leak in the works." The bowl burbled interrogatively. "What are you ask — no, I near had my HEAD caved in by A BLOODY METEOR STRIKE, FOR FUCK'S SAKE!"

The bowl bubbled. "Are you taking the piss? NO, it's not Tuesday, and I do not make a habit of nearly being struck down by a full-powered angel. At this point and time, I'm frankly about THIS close to shoving my bishop-blessed 9-iron up your black hole. Do you comprehend the words coming out out of my—" The burbling was mildly insulted and bubbled solidly for a minute.

Crowley rubbed his hand against his forehead, his lips tucked in tightly against his teeth, and his other hand curled into a fist beside the bowl. "Listen, mate," he said tersely, "you better get your arse in gear and find me something that'll kill an angel. I don't CARE if you are avoiding Azazel. I don't bloody well CARE if Meg has been downstairs and collaborating with a large group of demons. GET ME A WORKING PIGEON STICKER, OR THE ARSE I DROP ON THE ROTISSERIE IS YOURS!"

The bowl more simmered at a mumble than burbled, and Crowley shoved it away. "What a pillock. I'm surrounded by half-wits and barely ambulatory prats."

Nothing was going according to plan. There was nothing in Hell’s arsenal that could stand up to an angel. Crowley fisted his hand tightly, anger in every line of his body. He slammed the fist down on his desk with all his might, cracking the veneer of the wood. “BOLLOCKS. I should have taken the downy bastard when I could have.”

 He sighed heavily, rubbed under his eyes tiredly with the fingers of both hands, and muttered, “Fine. I just need to come up with a Plan C.”

 

**GALLUP, NEW MEXICO — CRATER**

Gordon Walker had been with the Verrat since he was eighteen. He had joined it soon after his sister had been kidnapped by a pack of Skalengeck, and he wanted to get even with them. All of them. All of those who break the rules and hurt innocents. Gordon would never say it out loud, but, inside, he knew he was a crusader for the weak.  He was God sent to save the world.

He had followed the Verrat instructions, hunted down the Skalengeck like a good hound, and, eventually with his partner, destroyed the nest, purified the infection of disgusting drugged-out lizards. He had found his sister dead in a back room from a faulty impregnation, no surprise since hybrid Wesen often resulted in complications. But he hated Skalengeck, those filthy lizards, more than anything. He loved to hunt them down, and had become one of the top Hundjäger in the Verrat just to bring those filthy lizards down every time he could. Their blood on his hands was his deepest pleasure.

As one of the top Hundjäger, he wasn't surprised he had been given this case. He was, however, completely annoyed to be under the supervision of a Steinadler. Oh, sure, Jody was okay, but there was something off about her attention to the case. He could smell it. She used her soothing presence and just straight up honesty to mask it, but he could never completely put his guard down around her. _Perhaps_ , he thought, _it's because she's Verrat Ahnenerbe, and not just Verrat._ The Verrat Ahnenerbe had a thick aura of secrecy, and they dealt in the highest-level magica and exotic goods, so they were uniquely solitary and discreet. Jody was no different, although she was a Steinadler. He knew most Steinadlers went into the military, not the Verrat, so it was a bit of a surprise when he had been called in  for this assignment to find his partner was a high-level Verat Ahnenerbe, a Steinadler, _and_ a woman.

Then, the council members gave them the assignment, and he couldn't help but be skeptical. An angel? An incarnated angel that was wanted for study? And it was with a Grimm?

Gordon didn't really care, but he wanted to do his job well. They needed the angel and were told the pair had been last seen in Arizona, moving towards New Mexico. They needed to figure out where they were going, and try and get ahead to capture the angel. Jody had been given handcuffs with some symbols he wasn't allowed to look at, and they were both given holy oil, something that the ancient texts suggested could trap an angel.

So they had flown into Phoenix from the US headquarters in New York City, and found themselves in Gallup, staring into the biggest damned hole Gordon had ever seen. Deadest end ever. He couldn't smell anything useful. Then, they met the Reaper also on the case (fucking asshole). They caught a break when they looked for clues and found part of a car reported stolen by its appearance. Inside of it, beyond the burnt upholstery and metal scents, Gordon had gotten a noseful of petrichor and ozone, with a faint scent of honey and roses that had saturated the head rest and part of the seat. He guessed that was the angel. The Grimm smelled like leather and gun oil, with the imprint of his own, all very human and rather strong, with overtones of dirt and fruit pies. He didn't know what to make of it. He filed the information away with the scent stamp of “Dean Winchester.”

And then, there was nothing. They knew the Grimm had a father named John, who was impossible to find. He had a kid brother named Sam, who had disappeared and no one knew where. And he had various friends, but no other family, so they set watchers on all the possible places: in Nebraska, someone monitored an old bar called "The Roadhouse"; in South Dakota, someone watched over "Singer Auto Self-Service Salvage Yard"; in Kansas, someone kept an eye on Missouri Mosley. No one had seen them. The trail ran cold.

Now, Gordon stood at the edge of the police line by the motel and growled faintly. He hated failure. It was unacceptable. He took in big breaths, trying to bring in anything, scent anything at all.

Jody had gone back to the rooms, trying to plan their next move. There was no evidence the two had survived what they now knew was a meteor shower. On the other hand, there was nothing to prove they hadn't. The troll seemed certain they had. Gordon was more jaded about their survival, but he wasn't one to give up. So he stood at the edge, and kept scenting and breathing in, trying to smell something other than burnt everything.

It was just then that a faint scent of ozone and petrichor reached his nose. It was very faint, as if it had come from very far away. He grabbed onto it with all his might, and, yes... there... the smell of leather and that human stamp of "Dean Winchester."

He snarled and accidentally woged, but he ignored the few people who saw him and raced towards the scent. In the end, it eluded him, just too faint to be tracked. He swore viciously, hideously, and, again, ignored the looks thrown at him as he stormed back to the rental car, drove the extra thirty minutes to their motel, and then stomped to her motel room. 

He slammed open the door, startling Jody. She was on the phone when he entered, and, when she looked up at him, he woged again, his face predatory and a faint smile of sadistic glee on his lips, as he proclaimed, "They're alive. I smelled them for a moment. They're _alive_."

_Yes. I have found my prey._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hundjäger: a vicious hound dog-like Wesen. They are the Verrat's main enforcers. Hundjägers are fast, clever, cold and calculating, making them ideal for professions like assassinations and bounty hunting.
> 
> Skalengeck: Lizard-like Wesen. They are generally violent, aggressive, and irrational. They also have reputations as criminals and drug addicts/abusers. 
> 
> Steinadlers: When woged, they gain muzzle-like face and a beak-like nose. They have sparse feather-like hair all over their body. They retain their human hair color, while their eyes are an extremely pale yellowish-green color. Like a few Wesen, they can localize their woge in their eyes without altering the rest of their body. They are oddly persuasive in a stern, frank manner. 
> 
> Verrat Ahnenerbe: An elite Verrat force that specializes in finding and handling supernatural, occult, and rare objects.  
> ===================  
> TRANSLATION  
> “Did you find them?”  
> “No. They’re gone, Bela.”  
> “Gone? Do you mean… dead?”  
> “No, just gone. The motel is destroyed. There are no new clues.”  
> “That’s not good. What should I tell Yannick?”  
> “Nothing yet. I need you to watch the phone lines and then contact me as soon as possible.”  
> “Got it.”  
> \------------------  
> I'm thinking about setting up a webpage for the Bestiary because, well, it's getting long. What do you guys think?


	12. The Good Shepherd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Dean introduces Cas to Bobby and Grimm HQ. Karen gets a moment. Pegel eats a steak. Meg is given a hint. Jody gets some time alone. 
> 
> TW: Violence, Drug abuse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I discovered I'm shite at writing Bobby and a docile Meg. Absolute shite. Meg is in Hell doing her thing, so there's some mentions of Dante's Divine Comedy, The Inferno. It's not that graphic, but it IS Hell. So, TW.
> 
> There is also some stuff with Karen's back story that sort of... seems like cannibalism, but please remember that Blubaden are quite literally wolves in human clothing, not humans. Yeah, so... TW. 
> 
> Overall TW: Drug abuse, Violence, some semi-graphic descriptions of stuff
> 
> It seems I am updating about once every two weeks, so I'll keep to that barring anything occurring (knock on wood). I also somewhat feel Dean is OOC, but, again, I'm putting it down to Dean being 18. If he were in his 20s or older, I wouldn't write him like that because he's a jaded, cagey man. That's why I love him. 
> 
> Thanks to anyone reading; it makes me feel good. :)
> 
> Title from GRIMM S2 E5.
> 
> BESTIARY AND TRANSLATION AT THE END.

 

> _If you want to get to heaven_  
>  _Over on the other shore_  
>  _Stay out of the way of the blood-stained bandit  
> _ _Oh good shepherd_ _..._
> 
> _...If you want to get to heaven_   
>  _Over on the other shore_   
>  _Stay out of the way of the long-tongue liar_   
>  _Oh good shepherd_   
>  _Feed my sheep_   
>  _If you want to get to heaven_   
>  _Over on the other shore_   
>  _Stay out of the way of the gun shot devil_   
>  _Oh good shepherd_   
>  _Feed my sheep_
> 
> ~ Jefferson Airplane, [The Good Shepherd](http://youtu.be/lOWX2-l788A) (NOT Jefferson Starship)

It didn't escape Dean that he had automatically tried to jump in front of the angel when he saw Bobby start to pull the dual triggers of the double-barrel shotgun. It also didn't escape him that, if Castiel hadn't reached his hand out and stopped him, he would have had a giant hole for a midsection. Instead, he was fine, just scared to death ~~not that he’d admit that~~. The gun had gone off, but Castiel was fine.

He watched Castiel look down at the damage to his tshirt with faint distaste, not a single wound evident on his abdomen. Not even a single drop of blood. Cas slowly looked back up at Bobby, electricity crackling at the edges of his eyes. Dean had the sneaking suspicion he was pissed, although that was the only outward sign of it.

“This is Dean’s shirt.” Cas growled out, his voice as rusty as ever, fine fingers tugging at the hem with faint distress.

_**That’s** what he’s mad about?_

Cas passed his hand over the hole and it was gone. The gunshot hadn't even phased him, not even pushed him back a bit. Dean was impressed. A full-powered angel was so totally different than a half-powered one.

_So far I’ve only seen the powered-down Cas. What will the full-powered Cas be like?_

He shivered with anticipation, thinking about Uriel’s easy show of power that leveled a motel like it a kid kicking over an anthill. It was terrifying. ~~Terrifyingly hot, Cas the BAMF.~~

Bobby gaped for about ten seconds before lowering his shotgun. He was wearing a gray tshirt and a red plaid flannel over jeans and some house slippers. Dean guessed he hadn't gone to bed yet from the bags under his eyes. With some surprise and dose of “well shit” in there, Bobby said, “Well, that’s an eyeopener. Anything actually hurt you?”

Cas shrugged. “ _A few things. Nothing you have in this house._ ”

Dean said, “He says a few things. Nothing in the house.”

Bobby tucked the gun under his armpit, still suspicious. “You translating for him? How? He’s not speaking that I can hear.”

Dean felt the blush tinge his ears and neck, and he said, “We have, like, I dunno, a bond or something. I can hear him in my head.”

“ _A profound bond._ ” Castiel said with pride.

Dean ignored that.

Bobby snorted. “And that’s alright with you? That some random Wesen has their mental fingers in yer custard?”

Cas frowned and said, “I am not Wesen.”

He looked to Dean for validation and Dean nodded. “Yeah, Bobby. He’s not Wesen. That’s why I asked you to look up angels and demons for me.”

Bobby squinted at them both, as if wondering if they’d lost their mind, but then there was Cas, healthy as can be, not a scratch from a double-barrel shot to the gut. Very few things survived a double-barrel of buckshot with not so much as an “ow, that hurt.”

Bobby and pushed up his cap to scratch his head. “Welp, if I can’t hurt him…and you look alright there, boy, I guess he can stick around.” He pulled the cap back down and grumbled, “Not like I can stop him. An’ now I gotta clean up my Cheerios or Karen’ll have my head…”

Bobby sighed heavily and walked out of the kitchen to look for a mop. Cas eyed the mess and waved his hand at it. The bowl of cereal was no longer spreading its milky contents all over the floor, but sat primly on the table, not a drop spilt.

Dean grinned at the easy clean up and took Cas’s wrist. “C’mon! Karen must be around here somewhere!”

Cas didn't know who Karen was, but allowed Dean to pull him forward. As they walked through the house, Castiel noticed there were a lot of books. A lot of books, most of them about the history of Wesen and mythology. They paused in the office where a wall of phones were set up, some of them labeled mysterious things like “FBI,” “DEA,” “NSA,” “ATF,” and a few others. A small bank of computers were set up, and the walls were covered with marked up maps and reports of Wesen activity across the US. There was an oversized dark wood desk covered in open books, and a comfortable looking chair. Thanks to all the books, the desk lamp precariously held on to the edge of the desk, as did the pen holder filled with ball points of different colors. Behind the desk was a small bookshelf that had more books, but also a bottle of whiskey and a couple of glasses.

Cas noted the books on top of the desk were all about angels, and he wondered if Bobby had found something useful. He doubted it. Angels coming down to earth were extremely rare, unless they Fell. There were a few angels who were missing from Heaven, but they were strange personalities and no one had really bothered to look for them. Except for Castiel, but everyone in Heaven ignored his desire to find them. 

Dean grinned with pride at the office. “Bobby is the nerve center for most of the Grimms in the US. I mean, the Winchesters are sort of… the black sheep of the Grimm community, but Bobby is my dad’s dad’s dad’s dad’s sister’s grandchild, and, even if his Winchester blood is a bit thinner since she married into the Singers, there’s nothing as important as family.”

“ _You seem very proud._ ” Cas didn't quite understand any of it, but Dean beamed at him.

“Bobby is important to the Grimm community! There aren't very many of us, and most of us have to lie low, move around a lot, and take jobs killing off any Wesen we come across. Whenever we have to investigate and we need information, we just call Bobby!” He pointed vaguely at the wall of phones. “He even helps us with our aliases. Whenever they want to speak to a superior, we send them to Bobby! It helps a lot when we have to get rid of bodies and stuff...  well, we’re on the run a lot.”

Dean sighed and frowned slightly. “I mean, I hear that there’s a Grimm up in, like, Portland who’s a cop and stuff, but most of us can’t stay in one place. Bobby can because he doesn't hunt Wesen much any more. It tends to freak Karen out.”

“Karen?” Cas tilted his head inquisitively, and Dean chuckled.

“Karen is Bobby’s wife. She’s… well, she’s different.” Dean sucked back a breath and muttered, "Dad doesn't like her. Says it’s not right. He barely stops by anymore because he and Bobby get into fights about her.”

Cas frowned. “ _What is wrong with this Karen?_ ”

A scowl pinned itself between Dean’s eyebrows, and his lips tucked together angrily. “Forget it. Let’s go find her.”

He took Cas’s wrist again and tugged. He shook himself like he was trying to get rid of a bad thought and, after blowing out his funk as a raspberry between puckered lips, he grinned back at Cas eagerly. “I bet she’ll make us a pie if we ask! Maybe an apple pie! Oh, that’d be sweet!”

“More pie?” Cas looked doubtful.

Dean’s smile could have beaten the sun. “Cas, there’s always room for pie.”

They found Karen out in back, hanging up sheets on the clothes line. Her blonde hair was held back by a kerchief and, when she heard the screen door slam shut and a robust holler of “KAREN!” from Dean, she turned towards the house, her light blue eyes bright and smiling.

“Dean Winchester! It’s been too long! Where has your father been hiding you?”

Dean pulled Cas behind him, but let him go long enough to give Karen a full hug. She was much shorter than him, the top of her head barely reaching his shoulder, and she wore a pretty flowered dress, with an apron and everything. Her face was round with very few wrinkles, and she didn't look like she was in her late forties at all. After escaping from his hug, she leaned back and grasped him by his elbows to get a good look at him.

“Oh my,” she warbled, her tiny white teeth barely visible in her smile as she perused Dean from head to toe. “You have grown another two inches, young man! Look at you! You’re almost all grown up!”

Dean had to work at not squirming self-consciously, but he did grin. “Karen, you’re such a flatterer. If you keep that up, I’m going to have to steal you away from Bobby!”

She laughed with delight and lightly slapped him across the arm. “Oh! You kidder!” She pulled on him to turn and face Castiel, and she asked, “And this young man is..?”

“Ah, this is Cas. He’s an Angel of the Lord.”

Karen’s face went pale and, abruptly, she woged, suddenly becoming woolly, sheep ears popping out, and her eyes becoming wider and brighter blue with triangular pupils. “Oh, dear. Oh dear oh dear,” she whispered. “An angel.”

Under Cas’s curious eye, she woged back, although she was still trembling and, now, hiding behind Dean a bit. “Oh dear, oh dear.”

A tiny smile on his lips, Cas said in his gravelly voice, “A lone Seelengut.” He reached out a hand, and she backed away from him, hiding behind Dean even more.

“Oh dear oh dear,” she whispered. “This can’t be good. He can’t be here.”

Dean frowned and tried to look at Karen. “Karen, do you know something?”

Karen shook her head against his back. “I… I need to get to Bobby.”

She ran off, leaving a partial basket of wet laundry and a confused Dean behind.

“What was that, Cas?”

Cas blinked at him. “ _I honestly do not know, Dean. She is a Seelengut, and that’s all I know._ ” He paused and squinted hard at Dean. “ _Is her...persuasion… why your father does not care for her?_ ”

Dean laughed. “Yeah. Grimms generally just kill any Wesen they come across,  y’know. It’s like… instinctual. Or least my dad says so. Any way, when Bobby found her beaten near death, covered in claw marks, and the rest of her flock mostly eaten by the pack of Blutbaden that he had been tracking, he couldn't kill her.” Dean shrugged, turning to pick out a wet sheet from the basket. “I mean, she was hurt and she’s just a Seelengut.”

He directed Cas to help him pin the sheet to the line with his hand and said, “But dad… man, when he found out Bobby had brought her home, he lost it. I mean, you’d have thought Bobby had brought home one of those Skalenzahne, y’know those vicious crocodile things, the way he talks about her sometimes.”

He pinned the sheet decisively, nodding satisfaction, and pulled out another wet sheet, the last. “I mean, I know we’re Grimms, and I know we’re supposed to hunt down Wesen, but Karen is so sweet.”

He got Cas to hold the other end again while he pinned the sheet. “She makes me pies, Cas. And her food is delicious! I don’t get why he has to hate her so much.”

Cas said softly, “Because you are Grimms.”

Dean sighed heavily and nodded. He jerked his head back towards the house. “Let’s get back. Hopefully, once she’s back in Bobby’s presence, she’ll be okay.” He chuckled under his breath. “Ah, Seelenguten. They scare so easily.”

Cas held his tongue, wanting to remind Dean about Uriel’s meteor shower and his own imperviousness to buckshot, but knowing it wouldn't matter to the young Grimm. Karen was probably right to be scared.

 

 

**GALLUP, NEW MEXICO**

Pegel was in the middle of lunch at a restaurant with saddles and painted bull skulls for decorations and what looked like Christmas tree lights for illumination, when he received the call from the Steinadler woman.

“Yes?”

“Uh, this is Jody Mills. We met at the crater site?”

“Yes, I know who you are.”

“I was calling, as per our agreement, to tell you the Grimm and the angel are alive.”

A thrill sizzled through Pegel. The waitress saw his thick lips curl into a predatory smile, and she nearly dropped the T-bone steak and baked potato he had ordered to get away from him.

“How do you know?” The guttural growl escaped him with more strength than he expected.

“They apparently briefly returned to the crater. Gordon got wind of them briefly. He’s sure of it.”

_Ah, der hund._

He had forgotten about the beast in man flesh that she was controlling. A Hundjäger never lost a scent once they had it.

“Sehr gut.” The words tasted like fine fresh blood on his tongue. It was very, very good to hear confirmation of his instincts as a Reaper. “I will continue my investigation.”

A pause. Frau Jody Mills inquired softly, “You will keep us updated?”

A small laugh huffed out of him. “Of course, meine Frau. I will keep our agreement.”

He snapped shut the phone and smiled gleefully at his steak. He delicately cut into his rare steak, shoving the piece into his mouth. The rare beef was succulent and he had to admit, if nothing else, New Mexico had some fine beef. He chewed, swallowed, and plotted his next move. _Where would they go?_

 

 

**HELL—THIRD CIRCLE**

Meg was a mess. She had barely smoked out of her meat suit before the damned angel had gone all Sodom and Gomorrah on their asses at the motel. Her two minions waited too long, and the holy fire inherent in the meteors caught them as they attempted to escape, burning them into nothingness. It was annoying. She had just trained the two boys to her exact needs. Good help was so hard to find.

She wallowed in the Third Circle, drinking while watching the floor show of some greedy bastards who had loved food way too much, and were now condemned lie here, sightless and heedless of their neighbors. Meg had no idea why sitting in the freezing rain, lying in slush, was any sort of symbol for gluttony, but, hey, she wasn't calling the shots downstairs.

The Third Circle was, of course, outfitted nicely for upper-level demons, those who could defend themselves and proven themselves worthy. The bar she was sitting at was an exclusive VIP lounge, where you could watch any of the Nine Circles of Hell on giant flat screens. Behind her, huge bay windows looked out into the depressing landscape, all grays and browns of waste and despair. The Gluttonous crawled about half buried and oblivious to each other. It was quite amusing to watch them bump into each other occasionally and discount the obstacle as just another rock. That’s what happens when you live in self-indulgence all the time, she supposed. She rarely visited the Third Circle. It was dull compared to, say, the Fifth Circle, what with the Wrathful fighting each other on the surface of the River Styx and the loser Sullen gurgling underneath the water. At least it was lively and occasionally a new soul made the gambling circuits go wild.

“Meg, what brings you down here? It’s not your usual spot.”

Meg turned from the bar, her beer forgotten, as she faced Beelzebub. “Beel,” she greeted him with a wary eye. Beelzebub was one of the seven princes of Hell, and she hadn't expected him to stop by and talk to her. Granted, she was Azazel’s daughter, but that didn't always work in her favor in Hell.

Beelzebub had taken to modern life very well. In fact, that was why there was even a bar in the Third Circle: he liked the easy form of Gluttony that alcohol and nachos provided. Of course, he was also a demon of Pride, but that was a more boring level. Pride was easy. Gluttony took some work.

Today, Beelzebub was wearing a young man with reddish hair and freckles across his face. As a Ginger, he was pale, but the tracks on his arms indicated why he was even paler than he should have been. Beelzebub wore the scars from heroin abuse proudly, his pale gray eyes bright in his too thin face. “So, do you like? I got him in Scotland, of all places.”

_Ah, that explains the accent._

She looked him over diplomatically and nodded. “Very nice. I love what you’re wearing on him.”

Beelzebub had him dressed in a tight, sleeveless tshirt and tight leather pants that slung low on his hips, revealing thin and bony hips that jutted out painfully. Beelzebub smoothed a hand over his hips and thighs and murmured, “Right? He’s so… addicted! Cocaine, heroin, marijuana, speedballs, crack, meth, bath salts… oh so delicious! He tried anything new that crossed his path! And then he was selling himself for money!” Beelzebub chuckled hard, his thin bony hands fondling the young man’s body and finally suckling his forefinger while making positively rude noises.

Meg tried to stay interested, but she didn't really give a fuck. Her recruitment drive was going slowly, mostly because grunt-level demons were stupid and needed to be micromanaged. It was annoying and exhausting. At least Azazel was taking some interest and finding her a couple of more capable demons. After the last fiasco, she didn't need more bad press with the higher ups. Keeping that in mind, she muttered into her beer, “Yeah, awesome.”

Beelzebub’s gray eyes narrowed and he repeated himself. “What are you doing here, Meg? You’re usually up top causing havoc.”

Meg smiled razor thin, waving at the eight screens of Hell. “Just drinking beer and enjoying the sights. That answer good enough, or is this an order from my Prince?”

“I can make it an order.”

She turned to face him again, beer mug in one hand, and debated if she could escape intact if she sassed him. Finally, she spat out, “Angels.”

Beelzebub’s face hardened at the word. “Ah. I heard that you were leading the force against that earthbound young one. I also heard it didn't go well.”

Meg narrowed her eyes to slits, waiting for the condemnation because, well fuck, this was Hell, and it was a demon-eat-demon world. But Beelzebub just eyed her, his hips cocked at an angle, his fist resting on it, while his thin lips smiled sardonically at her. He was not as powerful as Lucifer, but he could definitely force her to revisit the delights of Hell. She waited, trying not to show she was nervous. He finally hummed and sat down next to her. “There aren't any real effective weapons in Hell against angels. Most of them were lost or hidden after The Fall.”

“I knew that,” she sniped, sipping her beer. It slipped out. Oops.

Beelzebub’s gray eyes faded to his princely demon deep gray. “You might,” he replied slowly, as if speaking to a stupid child. “But I suspect you are missing a point. Hell’s weapons cannot kill an angel, but Heaven’s weaponry can.”

He stood up, his eyes still deep gray, and he smirked at her stupidity. “If Azazel had not asked me to talk to you, Meg, I would have just enjoyed watching you flounder and burn.” He grinned, his mouth no longer human as long needle-like teeth are bared at her. Unable to help herself, she cringed.

“I would have enjoyed eating your pride,” he murmured, reaching out one thin, bony hand to stroke her round face. “I will see you soon, no doubt.”

He walked away, not even bothering to look back at her. Meg rolled her eyes, and sighed. “Great. Angelic weapon. Where the fuck is a demon supposed to get one of those? Wal-Mart? Costco?”

She downed the last of her drink with a gasp and slammed the mug on the bar. “Whatever.”

 

 

**GALLUP, NEW MEXICO**

Jody Mills hung up the phone with a snap. She hated the disposable phones. She sighed as she sat up at her motel’s desk, stretching out her shoulders and rotating her neck. “I hate this gig,” she muttered into the quiet of the room. She had not worked her butt off in the Verrat Ahnenerbe to end up the handler for a hound.

She walked over to the window and looked out into the parking lot, the one thing she demanded from the clerk. She noted that Gordon’s car was gone, and decided this was a good time. Although she was certain that Gordon had never been in her room without her knowledge, she didn't put it above the Verrat to send someone else to spy on them, just in case.

She found her way up to the rooftop, and checked the parking lot again. No Gordon. Then she woged and, using her superior vision, checked outwards of five miles. Nothing from the streets that she could see, and with her vision, she missed very little. She woged back to human and pulled out a different burner phone. She dialed the number from memory and then sighed, keeping an eye out for Gordon’s car. The nice thing about New Mexico was that she could literally see for miles, and Gallup was small enough to keep surveillance fairly easy.

It rang a few times before a gruff voice huffed, “Yeah, whatcha got?”

“Nice to hear you too, Bobby,” she chuckled fondly. She had known Bobby Singer for over forty years, decades before her decision to join the Verrat. He hadn't known she was Wesen, and when he did find out his high school sweetheart was Wesen, there wasn't much he could do about it. He had already started hunting as a Grimm, but, because he had known Jody his whole life, it was hard to kill her. So he ignored the fact she was Wesen most of the time, and she ignored he was a Grimm.

This was not the time, however, to ignore his connection to the Grimms.

“What’s up, Jody?” There was a thread of caution in his voice she would have missed if she hadn't known him so well.

“You know your adopted son has a Reaper on his tail,” she asked solemnly, cutting to the chase.

“I heard.” He coughed hard and said, “And apparently the Verrat and a few other things too.”

She chuckled again, knowing he suspected her. She didn't want to disabuse him of the fact, but she also couldn't confirm it. “You old goat. I’m warning you about the Reaper. He’s dead set on Dean. Tell that boy to watch his ass.”

“Yep, he’s got it. Boy’s a Grimm. Comes with the territory, Reapers and such.”

“Do you know where he is? He’s in danger, Bobby.”

There was a short pause, and Jody’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“Robert Singer, if I didn't know better, I’d say you know something.”

There. She caught the slightest hitching of breath before he grunted in the negative, and said gruffly, “Yeah, can’t talk. Good hearin’ from you Jody. Thanks for the heads up.”

Her phone gave a persistent annoying beep until she snapped it close. That old bastard better watch his ass.

She sighed, running a hand over face as she realized something, and walked back inside to pack. She knew that man. They were going to have to have a talk with Bobby Singer. 

 

 

**SIOUX FALLS, SOUTH DAKOTA**

Bobby Singer was a paranoid man.

The Verrat agent had never come across a place he couldn't sneak into with ease, but Singer Salvage Yard managed to surprise him. There were endless traps, physical and mystical, and more warning sigils than he could shake a stick at.

So, he was stuck in an awkward stake out, a good mile away from the shop. He was annoyed, but he used his binoculars to keep an eye out.

He was chewing on his breakfast of an apple and a cold croissant when he saw them: the young men came bounding out of the house and were talking to the woman he thought was Singer’s wife. He watched for awhile for confirmation, but he knew that they had not been there earlier that morning or last night. He also watched with interest as Singer’s wife woged into a Seelengut and hurried inside, leaving the two men outside.

He reached back for his phone and dialed one without looking. Someone immediately answered:

“ _Qu'as-tu trouvé?”_

 _“Ils sont ici._ I have them at Singer’s.”

“Good. I will inform the team. Watch them. If they do anything, make sure to follow them.”

“Singer’s place is covered in booby traps and wards. You’ll need an expert to get past all of them.”

The controller laughed. “There is a Verrat Ahnenerbe in the team. It’s fine. They will take care of it. Just do not lose them or you will suffer for it.” The controller waited for the weight of the assignment to sink in, and then he said, “The Prince orders it.”

“Of course,” the hund answered. “I do as my Prince bids.”

He hung up and lifted the binoculars again, waiting for any change.

**GALLUP, NEW MEXICO**

Pegel was sitting in his rental car, wondering what to do (because thinking was not his strong suit) when his phone rang. He pulled it out and flipped it open.

Bela said, “They are in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Singer Auto Self-Service Salvage Yard. Take the next flight out. Hurry. The Verrat also know.”

She hung up, not waiting for confirmation and Pegel didn't expect it.

He grinned almost happily as he started his car, ready to drive the few hours to Albuquerque.

_Found you, Grimm…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hundjäger: A vicious hound dog-like Wesen. They are the Verrat's main enforcers. Hundjägers are fast, clever, cold and calculating, making them ideal for professions like assassinations and bounty hunting.
> 
> Seelenguten: A sheep-like Wesen that grows wool all over, sheep-ears emerge, and bright blue eyes. They are very shy and docile, preferring to be in groups. 
> 
> Skalenzahne: Vicious crocodile-like Wesen that like dark, dank places to hide. They have croc-like teeth, green scaly skin, and narrow yellow eyes. They are incredibly strong, and they like to hoard treasure. (NOT a dragon)
> 
> Steinadlers: When woged, they gain muzzle-like face and a beak-like nose. They have sparse feather-like hair all over their body. They retain their human hair color, while their eyes are an extremely pale yellowish-green color. Like a few Wesen, they can localize their woge in their eyes without altering the rest of their body. They are oddly persuasive in a stern, frank manner.
> 
> GERMAN TRANSLATION:  
> Ah, the hound.  
> Very good.  
> Frau = literally is “woman” or “Mrs/Ms”  
> My dear.
> 
> PEGEL is eating at a place called The Badlands Grill. Check out the menu. It’s actually kinda bad ass. I might have to drive my butt up that way.(http://www.tripadvisor.com/Restaurant_Review-g47042-d1571494-Reviews-Badlands_Grill-Gallup_New_Mexico.html)


	13. Born Under a Bad Sign

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobby and Cas get to know each other a little. Cas shows off his talents. Dean makes everyone angry. There's pie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am woefully late, seeing as I got distracted by some timestamps (which I'll post later) and a story I want to do something with later. I'm also beta'ing a few fics, so that's taking up time. Surprisingly, I find myself a smidgen busy.
> 
> The only notes are that this is mostly from Bobby's POV, which might be bad because, although I feel Bobby is very protective and fatherly to the boys, I suck at writing him. Or at life. I suck at life. I have proof of that.
> 
> The title is from S2 E14, where Sam is possessed by Meg, and it's Bobby's third appearance. The song is awesome; listen to it.
> 
> Also, this is kind of long, which I didn't (read: never) realize until I was like "oh...OOOOH. SHIT."

> _Born under a bad sign._   
>  _I've been down since I began to crawl._   
>  _If it wasn't for bad luck,_   
>  _I wouldn't have no luck at all._   
>    
>  _Bad luck and trouble's my only friend,_   
>  _I've been down ever since I was ten._
> 
> _~Albert King,[Born Under A Bad Sign](http://youtu.be/2Py37G9qsfY)_

**GALLUP, NEW MEXICO**

The phone rang as she was packing her bag. She flipped it open without looking, tucking it between her ear and shoulder as she finished up.

 “This is Jody.”

 “They've been found. Singer Auto Self-Service Salvage Yard, Sioux Falls, South Dakota.”

Jody’s breath caught and she found herself standing straight in shock. “Sioux Falls?” She asked vaguely, her heart pounding in her chest.

“Is this going to be a problem?” The voice was smooth and sweet, and Jody knew she was very close to being replaced with someone for whom it wasn't a problem.

“No,” she said swiftly, shaking her head in emphasis. “No, of course not.”

“Even though he’s your ex-boyfriend?”

Her eyes snapped shut and she tucked her lips together in a terse half moon, glad Gordon was in his own room packing and not witnessing her dismay. Of course they knew. They always knew.

“Despite that yes,” she said after a beat. “I have a job to do.”

“Good.”

The persistent annoying beep made her want to throw the phone across the room. Instead she snapped it shut and clutched it hard for a moment. “Damn it, Bobby,” she muttered, pressing her other hand to her forehead where a worried frown had built itself a home.

She bit her lip and grunted out her annoyance through her nose, throwing her phone on the bed.

The angel was dangerous and needed to be contained, but she couldn't reveal that to Bobby. She sighed and shoved her toiletries bag into the bag more violently than she needed to.  _Ugh, god DAMN it, Bobby!_

**SIOUX FALLS, SOUTH DAKOTA**

As Cas and Dean walked back into the house (Cas carrying the empty basket), Dean’s stomach gave out a mighty and petulant roar at having been ignored for way too long. Dean practically doubled over trying to stop it, but no. The Tyrannosaurus that used to be his stomach was determined to make its Jurassic Park voice heard, loud and proud. Dean blushed a bit in embarrassment, and awkwardly laughed, “Ha ha, starving.”

It made sense, seeing as Dean hadn't eaten anything in almost 48 hours. His stomach let off a series of growling shots, a symphony of hunger that made him cringe. He flinched at the continuous sounds and looked over at Cas, vaguely ashamed.

Cas just smiled at him, unconcerned with what Dean’s stomach was doing. But then Dean realized the impetus for his wild concerto of stomach growls was the smell of something cooking. Dean sniffed appreciatively. “Oh my god, Karen is cooking.” He shut his eyes and moaned almost orgasmically. He missed the wide-eyed look from Cas as he rushed off to the kitchen in his filthy, socked feet, leaving Cas to wander behind him.

Cas had started to follow behind Dean, but stopped suddenly in the hall. He stood with his eyes narrowed as if he sensed something, and, when Bobby found him a minute later, he had a sharp expression on his face, his blue eyes raging with storms.

“You okay there, angel?”

Castiel’s eyes refocused on Bobby, and he nodded. “My name is Castiel.” He said it slowly, as if it hurt him to speak.

Bobby just hmph’d. “Fine then,  _Castiel_ , wanna tell me what you want with my boy?”

Those raging blue eyes slowly settled, becoming a peaceful electric blue. His chin lifted a bit in defiance, and he said, “Bashert.”

Bobby frowned at the word. “Baa-shirt? What is that? Some sort of new wool suit? Which language?”

Castiel didn't reply, his eyes as peaceful as the clear summer skies of the South Dakota prairies. He had canted his head slightly, as if he were observing some sort of strange middle-aged beast in a ball cap stained with sweat and grease, and worn-out work boots.

They stood in the hall together, Bobby looking increasingly uncomfortable, Cas not exhibiting anything but mild curiosity.

Finally, Bobby sighed, defeated. “Look, if you won’t give me any more hints than ‘Baa-shirt’ or whatever, then help me with something else.” He pushed up the bill of his hat and scratched his forehead. “I've been reading up on angels, and there’s a shit ton of lore to go through. Isn't there something you can tell me that would be helpful if others like you come nosing around?”

Castiel just stared back at him with implacable blue calm and, after a few moments, Bobby rolled his eyes, and tugged down the bill of his hat with an annoyed yank. “Well, can you help me with anything here at all, feathers?”

“Your...wards...are okay.”

He looked so surprised, Bobby’s eyebrows appeared to have fled into his filthy baseball cap.  “ _Okay?_ Kid, those are some of the best wards in the country!”

Dean might have spotted the small smile that Cas was wearing, but Bobby didn't know him at all, so all he saw was a smug-looking asshat.

Cas squinted off into the distance, those storms threatening to come back, and then he said, “I will… help you improve...them.”

“Improve them?” Bobby squinted at the angel for a moment, and then blew out a heavy sigh. He had been given proof that the angel was legitimately from 'upstairs' and not some random Wesen that he had never heard of, and that religious texts were going to help him more than his family's library of Wesen history and biology. “Well, then, let’s get this party on the road, shall we? Just leave that basket over there.”

He waited until Cas dropped the basket and jerked his head to the right, which Cas took as the signal to follow him. They walked down the brief hall with its walls covered in photos of smiling boys, fishing poles, and baseball gloves. The older boy looked remarkably like Dean, and Cas paused in front of one photo with the boy grinning at the camera, holding up a fish that was nearly half his height. His face was red with a sunburn that covered his bare shoulders and chest, but he looked like he had conquered a castle with just a fishing hook.

“That’s Dean. He won a local fishing contest. Beat out all the locals, including me.” Bobby chuckled from behind him, having looked back and seen that Cas had stopped. He tapped the picture. “He was just thirteen here. Little shit demanded to be included in the adult contest.” Bobby grinned with pride at the memory. “Said beating children would be too easy, and he wanted a crack at that real crown.”

Cas smiled at the picture, the first real smile Bobby had seen on him, his blue eyes crinkling at the edges. “Did he…fish…again?”

Bobby noted that the angel’s intonation was weird, as if he wasn't sure what he was saying. He snorted and turned back towards the library. “Not that year. John came back that next week, took the boys away with him for a few months. He never left them for longer than a month or two, and Dean never got the chance to enter the contest again. I did take him fishing on occasion, but not in the last few years."

Bobby didn't know why he said it, but it slipped out. "To be honest, I don’t even wanna think what those boys endure with John.”

He frowned as he walked into the library and began digging around through the stuff on the top, glad the door to the kitchen was closed. “John… is a good man. He’s a great Grimm, one of the best. The Winchesters, y’know, are pure bloods, although they say the blood is sullied by Wesen.” He moved and stacked all the books carefully, making sure he saved his place in each, and then dug out a map from the depths of his drawers. “But John takes a seriously hard line with Wesen. Blames them for Mary’s death…” He stopped himself, pressing his lips together into a hard line. “Well, not that it matters a lick to you. You don’t deal with Wesen, right?”

Cas shook his head minutely and Bobby motioned him over. “Here’s a map. I can mark where all the wards are, if you gimme a sec…”

“No need.” Cas took a black pen from the pen holder and swiftly drew out each and every ward and trap he sensed on the premises. He also sensed that other problem, but this… he had to focus on this first. He drew them to the intricate level he knew Bobby had drawn them, knew where they were missing a few characters here and there, an extra line of protection here…

He eyed his map, finishing off all 108 of the interlocked wards in a minute. Bobby let out a low whistle. “Well, I’ll be…” He muttered. Not a one out of place.

Castiel then chose a red pen and began writing in the marks that Bobby missed, feeling how those lines would strengthen it, make it impenetrable to certain creatures. The wards would go off sooner when detecting Wesen, and prevent all forms of the undead from entering. As he quickly drew, one of the phones on the wall rang. Bobby glanced at it, saw it was one of his longer term cell phones, and knew it was one of five people with that number: John, Rufus, Jody, Ellen, or Jo.

He picked it up after eyeing it a moment, and, turning his back on Cas, huffed, “Yeah, whatcha got?”

A familiar female voice chuckled, “Nice to hear you too, Bobby.”

Bobby tried not to grimace. Jody. Meant nothing good was gonna happen.

“What’s up, Jody?” He felt slightly on edge, knowing she was part of the Verrat. Since the Seven Houses were constantly fighting with each other, you could never quite tell who was playing for which team. Just because someone was Verrat, it didn't mean the whole council was in on and approved the power play. Most of the time, they were playing against each other, bowing only to the main family in Austria. At least to their faces.

“You know your adopted son has a Reaper on his tail,” she asked solemnly, cutting to the chase.

“I heard.” He had _not_ heard. He would ask the boys later for details. As he considered what this meant, he made some quick jumps in logic about why Jody was calling him, coughed hard to cover his discomfort, and said, “And apparently the Verrat and a few other things too.”

Her warm chuckle tickled his ear again, and he knew she thought he suspected her. He didn't suspect her; he was 99.9% sure she was tracking down Dean and his angel. “You old goat. I’m warning you about the Reaper. He’s dead set on Dean. Tell that boy to watch his ass.”

“Yep, he’s got it. Boy’s a Grimm. Comes with the territory, Reapers and such.” They do, but not for a boy who wasn't fully a Grimm yet. He was going to have to talk to Dean about this.

In his ear, Jody murmured, “Do you know where he is? He’s in danger, Bobby.”

Bobby felt his body freeze. Jody was a Steinadler and they were  _good_ at persuasion. They were so earnest, a person just felt like trusting them. He fought off the temptation and he heard her say sharply, “Robert Singer, if I didn't know better, I’d say you know something.”

He heard his own breath-hitching tell and mentally cursed himself three ways to Sunday. He shut his eyes, and scrubbed a hand over his face. He grunted in the negative, and said gruffly, “Yeah, can’t talk. Good hearin’ from you, Jody. Thanks for the heads up.”

He disconnected the call with a small groan, knowing trouble wasn't just on the horizon, but was headed for them at full speed and bringing reinforcements. “Balls!” He snarled aimlessly.

He turned back to Castiel, who was staring at him with those electric blue eyes, his head tilted slightly like he was trying to determine what Bobby was made of, and making Bobby uncomfortable. “Ah, that was an old friend of mine. Seems that you boys have a lot to tell me.”

Castiel blinked at him and nodded slowly, handing him a new sheet of paper. It had a pentacle and a few other sigils inside the circle. To Bobby’s surprise, the angel gave him a small shy smile and tapped the paper with a finger. “Devil’s Trap.”

He pointed to the floor and ceiling, and said, “This will trap a demon. Hide it.”

_Demons. He just said **demons**._

Bobby thought back to what Dean had asked him to look up, and heaved out a heavy sigh. “Well, god damn it… guess we better get started.” He looked over at Castiel, who was regarding him with faint disapproval, and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, fine. Sorry. Now if your precious feelin’s are all plastered up, can we get this over with?”

He pointed towards the kitchen and Castiel nodded, letting Bobby open the door and lead him in. They found Dean sitting at the table, stuffing his face with a hoagie, face covered gleefully in steak and cheese grease. Karen had even made him potato fries, steak-cut like he liked them. She was monitoring the pie she had popped into the oven, having frozen several for an occasion like this. Dean had stuffed his cheeks so fat he looked like a chipmunk, and Bobby didn't miss the fond look the angel gave him, as if he were the most precious thing in the universe.

He didn't even know what to think of that.

“Looks like you’re doing alright there, champ,” he said, watching Dean with some disgust as he grinned, his mouth full of chewed meat.

“Karaaan iza gaddizz,” he garbled from behind the flesh of a whole cow, and Bobby shook his head and smacked him upside the head, causing him to choke a bit.

“Boy, I sure as hell didn't teach you to eat like a Blutbad. Show some manners, ya idjit!”

Karen watched them with fondness, but she stopped mid-chuckle when she saw Castiel looking at her, and she backed herself towards the stove in fear. Castiel tried to look as inoffensive as possible under her scrutiny, but somehow failed when she dropped her hand onto the still-hot burner.

She recoiled with a scream, woging with tears in her eyes, and backing even further into the corner, crouching by the stove and the window. Dean leaped up from his seat, but Bobby was by her side in a flash, looking at the raised bright red mark on her palm that was quickly turning white with a large blister. He hissed when he saw it, taking out his kerchief to wrap around it.

Castiel approached them slowly and looked down at the blister. His eyes looked into hers for permission, and she warily, briefly nodded. He kneeled down and took her hand in his, ignoring Bobby, and touched her palm with his finger. She gasped,  and he released her newly healed hand, smiling harmlessly. 

“I will not hurt you,” he said, his raspy voice making her ears tilt back a bit. “I promise.”

Dean, who was standing behind Bobby as he looked over Karen's healed hand with awe, grinned with (unwarranted) pride and nodded. “Cas is okay. He can heal all sorts of stuff.”

Cas’s eyes shifted up towards Dean and he frowned a tiny bit. “Not everything.” He clapped Bobby on the shoulder, and fluidly stood up. “Missing wings. Still not grown.”

Bobby and Dean frowned at that, and, as Bobby helped Karen off the floor, Dean asked, “What do you mean, not grown? I thought you were already a full angel!”

Castiel gave Dean a look that would have rivaled Sam’s bitch-look #4 (Seriously, Dean?) and slowly said, “Full-grown angel would… not have been trapped.”

“Oh.” Dean flopped back into his seat and started shoveling fries into his face.

Bobby said, “That reminds me, Dean. What’s this I hear about a Reaper and the Verrat on your ass?”

Dean stopped shoving fries in his face and stared back at Bobby. “Weapah?” He repeated through the fries. “Wah da fak?”

Bobby felt the anger fly through from his brain to his fingertips and smack the boy upside the head again for disrespecting Karen by swearing in her presence and speaking with his mouth full. “Honestly, Dean, you’d think you grew up in a barn!”

Dean swallowed hard and glared as Bobby as he rubbed the back of his now aching head. “Jesus Christ, Bobby! Did you have to do that?”

Bobby cocked an eyebrow at him, and jerked his head towards Karen and Castiel, both of whom were staring at him with mild disapproval. Karen sniffed and left them to their own devices, trusting Dean to take care of the pie.

Dean sighed and said, “Sorry.” But the repentance only lasted a moment as he said, “But, seriously, what’s this about a  _Reaper_ ?”

Bobby sat himself down across from Dean, tapping the table with his finger. “I just got a call from an old friend in the Verrat. She didn't tell me, but I know the Verrat are on the case. If she's involved, they'd have to be.”

Dean shrugged it off. “Yeah, I knew about them.”

Bobby leaned forward, shaggy eyebrows drawn into thunderclouds of furry fury over his eyes. “And you didn't think to tell me?”

“Bit busy, what with you shooting Cas and then whining over your Cheerios.” Dean groused, picking at the last few fries.

Bobby sighed, his patience wearing thin. “What about the Reaper?”

Dean looked up and straight at him, his green eyes clear. “I didn't know.” For a second, his eyes clouded, like he was remembering something, and then he said, “No, I didn't really know. I think Cas’s asshat brother mentioned assassins, but he’s a dick and I didn't really believe him.”

From behind Bobby, Castiel said, “Uriel would not lie.”

Dean snorted and shoved a fry in his mouth. “Maybe not, but he’s still a dick.”

Bobby heard a muffled chuckle from behind him, and he said, “Look, Dean, you’re not a full-grown Grimm. I seriously don’t think you could take on a Reaper. This is something to seriously worry about! A Reaper can take out a full-grown Grimm, much less pipsqueak like you!”

“I’m not a  _pipsqueak_ ,” Dean replied indignantly. “I think I can take a Reaper. I helped dad take one out!”

“Your dad is a full-grown Grimm, ya idjit! And you just said you  _helped_ him take it out! You don’t stand a chance on your own!”

Castiel moved out from behind Bobby, and stood at his shoulder. He squinted at Dean, and Dean scowled back. “Dammit, Cas! I’m not going to die that easily! Bobby is exaggerating!”

Bobby raised an eyebrow, and Dean glowered at him. “Bobby, he thinks you’re right. That’s I’m just sugarcoating it.” He glared up at Castiel. “I can take care of myself, Cas! I don’t need Bobby to babysit me.”

The angel glared back, and Bobby guessed they were arguing, but it was weird to only hear Dean’s side.

Dean jumped up, slamming his hands on the table, causing his plate to rattle.

“No, Cas! I am not going to run! We need to face this Reaper! And the Verrat if they come too!”

Now, Bobby was not a particularly religious man, but the sight of an angel angry enough to have lightning edging out his blue eyes, and his unimaginably huge, black-blue wings pop out his back was enough to make him jump up and step away from the table.

Those wings swung up and flared up and out, feathers ruffling in anger, as the angel pinned Dean down with those electric blue eyes, his body rigid, and his hands fisted at his sides. “Dean…” He hissed insistently, and Bobby was glad that Karen had had the good sense to leave after the burner incident.

But Dean didn't back off. If anything, his face got red, and his green eyes suddenly went dark as his pupils dilated with some emotion Bobby was pretty sure he didn't want to know about. Dean started to pant, small, hot breaths, and he licked his bottom lip before biting down on it. “No,” he finally muttered stubbornly, his hands also fists at his sides. “Cas, I won’t do it. I’m tired of running. We’ve been running since the moment I found you in that cage, and I’m tired of it. End of story.”

To Bobby’s wise eyes, pain and fear were readable in the angel eyes, as was the slight snarl of anger that had slipped through before he was able to slip a mask of indifference on.

Castiel glared at Dean some more, growling slightly, and he bit out, “FINE!” before disappearing from the kitchen with a rustle of puffy feathers.

Dean stared at where the angel had stood, and then collapsed into his seat. “Aw man,” he groaned. Pushing the plate away with his forearms, he smacked his head against the table and moaned pitifully. Bobby heard, “Shit!” from under the table, and he really wondered what Dean was about.

He tentatively sat back down and asked, “What’s going on, Dean?”

The silence was heavy, and it stretched out to a good five minutes before Dean sat up and exhaustedly scrubbed his hands over his face. “I honestly don’t know,” he said though his fingers. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and let out another sigh. “He was mad because I wanted to fight, and he was telling me that I needed to tell you everything.”

Bobby eyed the young man before him: eighteen years of age, with brown hair that lightened to blond at the ends; strong shoulders and hands he was still growing into; tanned skin with freckles that stood out when he was stressed; and Grimm green eyes that steadily faced obstacles. The boy was a Winchester. At eighteen, he had manifested more than most young Grimms, which wasn't surprising, given that Winchesters were cursed to learn about evil in the world long before most people even earned their first kiss. There were no Winchester women left, but they had always come to power much earlier than most families, at nine or ten. They lived hard, bred young, and died young, if they were granted the Grimm gene. Most of them had just died young, though. John Winchester had reinforced the Grimm genes in his sons by marrying Mary Campbell, a pure-blood of one of the Seven Houses. Even worse, she had been a cousin of the First Family. Dean and Sam might as well have come out of the womb with a weapon in each hand and crawling out to search for Wesen to kill. Maybe the only thing that had saved them from that fate was that Winchesters were not tamed Grimms that served the Verrat. They rarely served the royalty, and, although they took some mercenary jobs, John's hatred of Wesen and the Verrat was such he worked poorly under them, if at all.

But looking at the boy sitting dejectedly at the table, Bobby wished the boy for something else. Bobby always had a softer spot for Dean than Sam, probably because he saw Dean try harder and earn less affection for it. Dean wasn't an in-depth thinker, but he was a brilliant strategist and he moved with his instincts of right and wrong, something Sam seemed to grapple with. Sam wanted to think out every angle, think about the morality; Dean just went with his gut, and, most of the time, it was the right answer. He was a _good kid_ , even if John never let him really feel it.

Both boys were good kids, but Dean seemed to feel he wasn't, and it hurt Bobby to see it. He sat back in his seat and waited.

Dean scrunched up his face, and let out a long, hard breath. “Okay, _fine_. I knew about the Verrat, but not about the Reaper. Apparently we also have like… I dunno… two fighting factions of what Cas said were demons trying to capture him. On top of that, apparently the angels aren't so happy with Cas’s being here. So… yeah… I’m getting kind of tired of running.”

Bobby sighed. “How is it, that half the time you clean a mess, you end up dirty?”

“Bobby,” Dean whined, “I didn't mean for it to go down like this! I couldn't just…  _leave_ _him_ in the cage!”

Having seen Dean’s... _reaction_ to the infuriated angel, Bobby figured it was two heads that got him in the mess, and they, working together, were not better than one sensible, future-thinking head. Still, he supposed if he had seen Castiel trapped miserably in a cage for people’s enjoyment, he might’ve done more than just free him. The Ringmaster might’ve suddenly lost his head. In a bag. Tossed in the nearest arroyo.

“I get it.” Bobby frowned, his lips tightening as he thought through the possibilities. “Well, your angel gave me some help on tightening up the ward around the house and something called a ‘Devil’s Trap’ so that should help out some.” His gray-blue eyes narrowed on Dean’s face and he said, “We ain't sure what sort of Reaper is coming, so while I look up stuff on demons, you look up the general Reaper species, just in case.”

Dean was fine until he understood he had to research, and he started to complain until Bobby glared at him and said, “Damn it, Dean! If you’re going to be a typical, stubborn little sonuvabitch Winchester, then you better learn how to kill the damn thing, because it definitely knows how to kill your not-quite-a-Grimm ass!”

Dean’s mouth snapped shut, and, although he colored up to his ears, he knew Bobby was right. He deflated in defeat and got up to wash his plate before heading into the library. He was mildly saved by the bell as the oven timer announced the pie was done, and Bobby left him to do that while he went to shore up the defenses and find the books for Dean to read for research. There was a lot of things to do and he had the feeling not a lot of time to do it in. 

It was looking to be a long day and it was only 1PM.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: It is important to me that people realize Bobby is pronouncing bashert wrong. It’s not that Cas is pronouncing it wrong, but that Bobby’s Yiddish is probably as good as mine (near non-existent) in this AU, even if he’s a major polygot. The proper pronunciation is “bəˈSHərt.” (Hear it here: http://www.oxforddictionaries.com/us/pronounce/american_english/bashert )
> 
> *Schematic of Bobby's first floor: http://www.supernaturalwiki.com/index.php?title=File:First_Floor_-_Bobby%27s_House.png
> 
> Next chapter, 80% chance of obligatory shower sex. Factions come back into play (but don't quite arrive). Dean gets pie. Karen tells Bobby something important.


	14. The Kiss of the Muse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Verrat is closing in. Bobby learns stuff. Dean takes a shower. Cas takes care of business. Things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [...] There was a LOT of research for this chapter... I was ass deep in angel lore and stuffs. I am not marking the Enochian except to say, "in Enochian." I'm pretty sure you all can handle that. 
> 
> Also, I'm mixing mythologies a bit. Ha ha. STOP ME. 
> 
> Oh, there's a ton of fancy language in one place because it's CAS. That's right, I used "loins" and "member"! HA HA HA! *dies of shame* SORRY. It's CAS'S POV and he's a fussy guy.
> 
> TW:  
> \- Violence  
> \- Male masturbation  
> \- Grinding
> 
> Next chapter... action-y things happen.

> _You could be my unintended_   
>  _Choice to live my life extended_   
>  _You could be the one, I'll always love_
> 
> _You could be the one who listens_   
>  _To my deepest inquisitions_   
>  _You could be the one, I'll always love_
> 
> _I'll be there as soon as I can_   
>  _But I'm busy mending broken_   
>  _Pieces of the life, I had before._
> 
> _~Muse,[Unintended](http://youtu.be/i9LOFXwPwC4)_

**ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO (3PM MST)**

Pegel was awkwardly sitting in the airport waiting area. His large body did not fit into the seats very well, and his height made him stick out like a sore thumb. He tried slouching a bit, but it only served to make his back ache, especially after the three-hour drive, all thanks to a traffic accident that had slowed everything down to a crawl. As such, he was also exceedingly moody about being late. He doubted the Grimm had run yet, but he was anxious and just wanted to taste the blood of his enemy on his lips, feel the scythe glide through flesh almost seamlessly, and hear the drop of the body separate from the low thump of the head as it bounced away. He was very much looking forward to completing this hunt.

He had just given up all hope of comfort, and had closed his eyes to rest a bit, when a cheerful voice said, “Well, hello! Fancy meeting you here!”

His grey eyes flicked open and the Steinadler was sitting next to him, holding out a cup of coffee. The hound was standing nearby, his irritation evident in the curl of his lips and the flare of his nostrils, but his eyes were hidden and he kept his body language still. The woman, Jody, he remembered, pushed the coffee cup at him with a grin and a nod, and he reluctantly took it.

“Nice to see you here! Although, I dare say you didn't bother contacting us, since you arrived earlier than we did.”

“I was told you knew,” he said, popping open the lid and taking a sniff. American coffee all tasted like brown water, but this one seemed adequate. He took a sip; it was still weak, but at least it was a dark roast that gave it flavor. “Danke,” he murmured after, lifting the cup towards her in homage.

“That’s true, we did know.” Her head canted like a bird’s, eyes briefly flickering between bright lime-green and golden brown. “I want to ask for your help again.”

The hound whose name he forgot snarled, “We do not need his help!”

She didn't even turn. “I’m tired of arguing this with you, Gordon. We need help if we plan to capture it alive.”

He grumbled, crossed his arms over his chest, and turned to face the reception desk. Pegel felt a smile sneak up on him, and the woman patted his arm companionably. “Now, as I was saying, we want the angel. You’re also supposed to be after the angel and the Grimm. Surely we can come to some sort of arrangement?”

The Reaper took another sip of his coffee to buy time. He was supposed to nab the angel, but he felt it was troublesome on top of the Grimm. He needed to talk to Bela first. “Unknown,” he said bluntly. “I will call and see what they say.”

The woman nodded understanding, and he slowly stood to his full height, pulling a phone out from his pants pocket. He turned for privacy and, a hurried conversation later, turned back to her. “As long as both are taken care of, I can assist,” he said slowly.

Her eyes flickered to lime-green, and she said, “I would prefer the Grimm be left unharmed.”

He grinned, woging, his sharp teeth gleaming eerily in the overly bright afternoon light. “I would prefer him raw and between my teeth.”

Jody’s eyes flickered back to brown, her face a mask, and Gordon’s shoulders tensed. She nodded minutely. “Fine. Then let’s talk business.”

Pegel just grinned.

 

**SIOUX FALLS, SOUTH DAKOTA (115 PM CST) — Bobby**

Bobby was tired. He hadn't slept last night, thanks to some research he had been working on about Zauberbiest for Rufus. They were extremely rare Wesen, perhaps a 1:1000 Wesen find, and one that some Grimms had gone to their graves never seeing. It was probably the bad luck that followed Rufus like a cloud of cologne that got him in its sights. That dick was going to get himself killed one of these days, Bobby reckoned. So god damned lazy about research, it’s amazing he had lived to see forty-six.

But what was bothering Bobby wasn't Rufus and his tendency to forget vital points during a hunt; it was Dean. Dean and his obvious feelings for the angel that were definitely on this side of “not good” and headed straight for the “totally fucked” territory. He had seen that look before, the one Dean gave Castiel, and that was the last time he had seen John fight with Mary, all fire and desire between them, warring want and anger.

Nope, this wasn't good.

He was in the library, musing over Dean and his angel, when Karen pulled him into the basement, woged and looking worried. Her ears were pinned back and her eyes were especially wide in her face. Bobby let her pull him, watching her carefully close and lock the door at the top of the stairs, and follow him down into the extra storage area. She gripped his biceps with cold fingers, and said in a trembling voice, “Bobby… we have to get him out of here.”

“Who? The angel?” Surprise and concern furrowed his brow.

She nodded and bleated in fear, nervousness making her forget herself. Karen forced herself to woge back, and clung to Bobby. “The Seelenguten are very religious,” she murmured against his shoulder. She leaned back and stared at him, biting her lip anxiously. “We… we like congregations, and although we seem silly, we were there at the birth of Christ. We took his coming very seriously. The Apostle Simon Zealotes was Seelenguten, as was Gaspar, one of the wise men who followed the other two to the new prophet. Many of our flocks have been followers of Jesus for millennia.”

Bobby waited for Karen to gather herself together. Seelenguten were generally timid folk, but they followed the flock decisions and they followed their perceived Alpha. Karen trusted Bobby, but he wasn't Seelenguten, so Bobby assumed she was telling him lore that Grimms had never been privy to before. She leaned her forehead on his chest for a moment, playing with the fabric of his shirt between her fingers. He could tell she was chewing on her bottom lip a bit more, as she trembled the whole time. Finally, she bleated, “We have a prophecy about angels coming to earth.”

Bobby started, his head moving away from her as he tried to get a better look at her face. “What?”

Karen’s eyes filled with tears. She clutched at his shirt and bleated, “It’s the end of the world!”

Bobby’s eyebrows shot up in disbelief, and he asked, “Baby, what are you talking about?”

Karen sniffled as she tried to hold back her fear. “The Seelenguten have their own Bible, you know, with a Gospel written by Simon Zealotes. It’s foretold that when the angels come down from Heaven again, there will be great struggles and the Apocalypse would come upon us.”

She closed her blue eyes and tucked her head under his chin. “I’m scared, Bobby. I’m scared for you, and for me… but especially for Dean. This can’t be good…”

Bobby held her close and dropped a kiss on her head. He knew Karen loved the boys like they were her own, a blessing when her own body didn't recover from the Blutbaden’s attack. He murmured into her soft blond hair, “It’s okay, baby. I’ll protect you, no matter what. And, well, Dean… Dean’s a Grimm and a Winchester. He’ll get through somehow. I get the feeling that angel isn't going to leave with any of our persuading. We’ll just have to wait it out.”

In the basement of the house, he just held her until her tears stopped coming, pressing reassuring kisses into her hair and onto her face, while she trembled and tried to find the strength to take care of her boys.

Bobby sighed. “Besides, I get the feeling Dean’s sweet on the winged bastard. I doubt he’s going any where.”

 

****SIOUX FALLS, SOUTH DAKOTA (3PM CST) — Dean**  
**

Dean had had enough research. For two hours straight, Bobby had forced him to sit his ass down at the desk and read up on the main Reaper species. Not even the four pieces of pie he used to power his way through the books was keeping him on target. He was done.

He knew that Reaping was a job, not an actual species, but when confronted with ten species and all their weaknesses, he could only hold onto so much information. He had read up on the top five of the bastards, and if they had thrown a random species at him, whatever. He’d improvise. He was good at that.

Bobby had taken off in his truck an hour ago to shore up the wards with the new sigils Cas had given him. He would probably be back soon, but what worried Dean was that Cas wasn't back yet.

_Did I piss him off that bad? Did he leave me?_

Panic rose in him at the thought of the angel abandoning him, and he fought it off. Scrubbing a hand through his short sandy blond hair, he blew out a long breath between pursed lips, and huffed out, “Screw it. I’m taking a shower.”

He found some of his extra clothes that he had left at Bobby’s house for when they visited, and crowed with triumph over finding a pair of old boots in the closet. He had forgotten he had left them there, and was grateful Bobby was a packrat at heart.

He put his stuff on the bed and grabbed a towel out of the linen closet on his way to the bathroom.

The bathroom was to Karen’s taste: light blue paint with white embellishments and blue roses on a white field edging the walls; fluffy white and dark blue towels hung from the racks, with embroidered blue roses and the theme matched the porcelain soap holder on the sink. The tub was an [ancient claw-footed tub](http://s2.hubimg.com/u/1221723_f260.jpg) big enough for two people that Bobby had retrofitted for modern plumbing; a dark blue shower curtain hung overhead for the shower wand Bobby had installed. Bobby was a fan of occasional luxury, but more often efficiency. The bathtub set up echoed that duality, being made for relaxation, but adjusted for his fast-moving needs, or, more to the point, when he had blood to get off himself quickly. When Dean turned the white enamel levers for hot water and then the shower, though, that was when Dean purred and called Bobby a genius in his head: the water came out hot and fast, the excellent water pressure splashing into the tub like a siren’s call of warm relaxing goodness.

He stripped quickly as the steam curled around him, feeling his shoulders and neck pop in relief after being hunched over books for too long. He had no idea how Sammy could just curl around a book for hours: just two hours, and he felt like he was cracking in half from not moving.

He stepped into the shower, his back to the spray, and he hissed momentarily at how hot the water was, but then he let the water roll itself way over his head and down his shoulders. He let the water warm away the tension in his neck, even as he snagged some of the coconut-scented shampoo that Karen bought and roughly rubbed it into his hair. It felt divine and he allowed himself to enjoy the feeling of not being in a hurry, not being hunted, being safe, and, best of all, not hungry. Karen was sure to fix them a big dinner, and he was looking forward to it, even after eating most of an apple pie.

He was a growing boy; growing boys had needs.

He scrubbed down with the bar of Ivory soap Karen favored, and thought about his situation. Bobby was a stickler for research, something Dean was not a fan of, but he had a better idea of how to kill most Reapers.

But who gave a shit about Reapers when there was a breathtaking angel in the house?

_I can’t even believe how hot he looked…_

Dean had been surprised when Cas growled his agreement with Bobby in his head. “ _There are too many enemies. I can’t stop them all. Dean, listen to your uncle!"_

Cas had to learn that he, as a Winchester, was unlikely to run from a fight. That Dean was a partner and not someone who needed protecting, just because he wasn't a high-powered angel!  _We need to pick off those bastards, make them reconsider their orders. A Winchester doesn't fold like a cheap suit!_

The fact that Cas had gotten so angry was mildly baffling, but _mind-blowingly, gut-wrenchingly **hot**_. Dean’s mouth watered when he thought about those wings flaring out, and those stunning blue eyes roiling with lightning storms. He had seen Bobby stumble back when Cas started his display, but those cheeks flushed with anger, those soft lips pressed together — Cas was a bad ass mother fucker, a moving poem of anger, his presence a song of stormy smiting. It was just ungodly (ha ha) hot.

And he was thinking about those wings again, about how soft they had been beneath him when they slept. The scents of rain on dusty earth, lemongrass, honey, and sandalwood tickled his nose in his memory and made him swallow hard, his body following suit without him doing a thing. He wished he knew more about wings so he could tell someone about how positively gorgeous they were: the long ones at the end that glowed blue; the softer middle ones that were deeply black and speckled with faint light; the short ones on top that puffed whenever Cas was angry. He almost wished he had Sam’s gift for words so he could write about Cas’s wings.

But thinking about Cas did other things to Dean. Facing into the spray, the hot water hitting the top of his head and down his shoulders, he let out a soft moan and smoothed a loose fist over his half-hard erection. He hadn't touched himself properly in days, thanks to traveling with John and then being on the run. The quick wank in the Angel Room was only because he thought he was going bust a nut just with Cas’s scent. But now, he had time. His body needed the slow burn and release of a good masturbatory session. He kept his fist just tight enough to feel good, his mind filled with those charged kisses that sank into his body like an imprint, leaving a mark on his soul. He rolled his other hand over the tip, making sure his hand was still soapy and wet, the hot water still beating his back like little fists.

Dean’s breath was coming faster now, hot little exhalations that he tried to hide in the curtain of water, ignoring how the rivulets fell into his mouth whenever he forgot he was in the shower and his head tilted back for a moment. But with the hot water over his lips, Dean remembered the heat of Cas’s mouth, the hot lick of his tongue, the heady taste of ozone and just _Cas_ in his mouth. Dean gasped, his mind clutching onto the memory of grace touching his tongue, sizzling into his body like a heady drug, causing his toes to curl in the swirling soapy water that circled the drain. His hips, like his breath, moved faster, his hand gripping tighter as he moved it up and down the shaft, fucking into his hand as he felt himself edge closer to coming. He caught his bottom lip between his teeth and worried it, trying to hold back the groan he wanted to release when he remembered the feel of Cas’s hands in his hair, the slight rasp of their cheeks meeting.

Unable to help himself, he found himself on his tip toes, balancing himself against the heat rising through his core and tightening in his balls. Dark blue eyes with blown pupils… spit-slickened lips, swollen from kisses… dark hair that he had carded into a wild tangle while trying to pull him closer… Dean came with a muffled grunt, biting down on the word “Cas,” his knees buckling a bit beneath him. He panted hard, pulling his hand over his cock and milking the last of his ejaculation into the swirling water at his feet.

Feeling slightly guilty, but much better, he finished washing up, cleaning his spunk off the shower curtain, before drying himself off.

He got dressed and padded out to his room to get his shoes on. He was tired of being caught without shoes.

He gleefully slipped on his shoes. As he was tying one of them and starting on the next, he heard a rustling thump and looked up to see Cas staring at him.

“Heya, what’s the word, Cas?”

_“It’s a shortened version of my name.”_

“Ha ha. Yes, it is. Smart ass.”

“We need to talk…” 

 

**SIOUX FALLS, SOUTH DAKOTA (1PM CST) — Castiel**

Castiel felt that it was always so easy to smile for Dean. When Castiel looked at Dean, it was like everything that he had been taught was skewed, because here was someone so beautiful, made of grass-green eyes and warm freckled skin. Dean wasn’t the fragile mudmonkey that Uriel always sniped about. He wasn't the uppity ape he had heard other angels call humanity. Dean was strong and warm. He was stubborn and protective. In fact, he was a human-shaped mule, as witnessed by the fact he refused to run when the odds were stacked so high against them! 

_Why doesn't he understand?!_

When Castiel had flown out in anger, he had decided he needed to protect his Basherter, whether he wanted it or not. He had flown to where he had sensed an intruder, and, sure enough, there had been a car sitting behind some bushes, just west of the house and just beyond the boundary of Bobby’s land. If Bobby had checked the boundary physically, he would have seen the guy. But Bobby trusted (to some degree) that most people were as stupid as the day was long, and had underestimated the Verrat operatives somewhat. The guy had been a good distance from any detection wards.

Castiel had looked down at the car, and he had watched the man take out what looked like a flattened sandwich with some disgust before he had tossed it back in his car and pulled out a bag of what Dean had called “chips.”

Castiel had flown to the open car window (the binoculars stuck out) and had peered inside, which had caused the man to sputter potato chips all over the dash and scramble for his gun. The man had been in his thirties with dark hair already going gray at the temples and dark brown eyes. He had full woged into a dark-brown Hundjäger, his fanged teeth had snapped out at Castiel, and his clawed left hand had snatched out to hurt Castiel, even as he had shot his 9MM at Castiel’s chest point blank. Much like the shotgun, it had done no damage, and neither had his teeth nor his claws. Castiel had merely pushed his hand past the man’s defenses into the car and had grabbed the man by the throat and dragged him out of the car through the open window, kicking and gurgling.

"Who sent you?" Castiel had snarled, holding the hound up off the ground. The man had gurgled at him, eyes bulging, and Castiel had abruptly dropped him. He had landed with a hard thump, gasping desperately for air.

Castiel had leaned in, anger crackling at the edges of his vessel. "Who sent you?" He had snarled again. The Hundjäger had paled and tried to scramble backwards, only to have the pissed off angel follow him. 

_"Tu comprends pas! Je suis du Verrat! Ils viennent pour toi! Lâche-moi!"_

"The Verrat." Castiel had growled. As he had expected, they were coming. "How long?"

 _"Je sais pas! Putain! Lâche-moi!"_ The hound had panted. He spat vitriol and tried to escape. Each time he had managed to stand, Castiel pushed him back over, until the hound had just sat on the ground exhausted. Castiel had squinted at him, and realized the man was not going to tell him anything more. He had debated for a moment, and then had read the man's surface thoughts, finding that he had contacted them that morning, and that he knew nothing more. 

Castiel had grabbed the man by the forehead and started to pour in his grace. The hound had howled as heat had begun to percolate his insides, and, as grace had burned out his eyes, Cas had sighed. The man had been obviously a minion sent to spy on the Singers. He had had no doubt the hound had spotted he and Dean outside earlier and dutifully reported them to Headquarters. 

There was probably less than half a day’s time before the Verrat was upon them.

Once the initial threat had been eliminated, Castiel had brooded on the situation. He had perched himself on the perimeter, had watched Bobby leave the house half an hour later to make changes to the warding, and had thought through seven different possible scenarios. He should have, however, calculated that the next wave of angelic interference was going to show up, and it was going to be harder to say no.

Castiel had heard a flutter and he had turned to see who had arrived. He had found himself facing a young woman with red hair and dark gray eyes, dressed in dark blue jeans and a red top. He recognized her immediately. “Anael, why are you here” he had said softly in Enochian. “You should be in Heaven with the Garrison.”

“Castiel, you’re part of the Garrison and my responsibility,” she had replied in Enochian as she had reached out to hug him. He had allowed her embrace, made slightly uneasy by the contact. Angels were not meant to touch familiarly; those sorts of attachments were taboo among warriors, even if they were family. “How are you, littlest one?”

He had not heard the nickname in a long time, not since he had left in search of his Basherter. He had felt himself get shy and had almost reverted to the awkward fledgling who had been assigned to the First Sphere, Moon Garrison, closest watchers to the Earth and home of many of the Virtues. After The Fall, the Virtues were no longer able to leave the Spheres, and mostly hung about the Garrisons in the First and Fourth Spheres, endlessly reminiscing about when they actively interacted with humanity. Michael had forbidden angelic interference any more; the garrisons had been filled to capacity and they had been given orders to train for the on-coming war. The "when" was never specified and was well above Castiel's pay grade. He was meant to just follow orders, not question the judgement of those higher, if not better, than him. 

Their sister, Anael, was the Moon Garrison leader. She loved humanity more than most of the other angels, and she had often told Castiel stories about the time before The Fall, before it had been Forbidden to leave the Spheres. Those stories had fueled Castiel’s dreams of earth, and burned like tinder in his desire to find his Basherter. His time on earth before The Fall had been brief and not nearly fulfilling enough. He had yearned to watch the humans develop more closely, as the last child of his kind, but he had been denied. The Fall, the Flood, the 40-days of rain and flood, the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah... all these things he wanted to observe, only to be told by Michael he was too young. He was only a few millennia short of Inias and Samandriel's age, yet they were given higher duties than he!

However, it was Anael who had stood before him again, eyes filled with dark sorrow as if she were reluctant, sent down, he was certain, to bring him back. They had stood looking out over the cluttered salvage yard in companionable silence. He was sure Anael was more the type to soothe him and try to wile him away from earth, but he could wait to hear her spiel. After the sun had moved in the sky and started to break into a heated afternoon, Castiel had decided he wanted to get the talk over with, since he still had things to attend to.

“Anael… Anna, things are well at this point,” he had replied slowly and warily. “Perhaps the more pressing matter is your presence here on earth.”

She had smiled softly, her vessel’s hair had rustled faintly in the breeze, understanding in her gaze. “My littlest angel, your absence has been noted. Michael has been looking for you, and he is slowly working himself into a fury. Raphael, too, has been agitated by your disobedience. Uriel has taken up your duties unwillingly, lamenting your stubbornness and, moreover, how you allowed yourself to be captured! You are one of Father’s favorites, yet you disobeyed and came to earth. Even worse, you are breaking the laws Michael had set forth after Father left reigning to him.”

Castiel had shut his eyes, not wanting to see Anael’s sympathetic expression. A small wind rustled by them, bringing the far off scent of rain. Time stretched. He had finally said, “I know. But it’s not my fault.”

Anael’s pale and slim hand had reached out and touched his forearm. He had looked down at the the thin fingers, his own skin only a shade darker from his imprisonment. “I’m not going back.” He had said this firmly, refusing for a moment to meet her gaze. He had sighed deeply, gathering his strength, and had looked into her sad knowing regard. “I’m not done here. I must stay and protect him. He is my bashert.”

“You do him more harm than good, Castiel. Your _shidduch_ cannot be correct. Free him. Return to Heaven.”

He had shaken off her hand more violently than he had intended, feeling his anger at being trapped in Heaven tremble in his grace. “Anael… Anna, you are the one who taught me the beauty of the earth and humans! How can you ask me when I have found my Basherter?”

Anael had turned to survey the world, a small smile on her lips. “Because there’s a bigger picture, littlest one. Bigger than even the dream of Plato's Androgyne.” She had turned the smile back onto Castiel, her pale hand again had reached out to touch him, brushing his jawline fondly. “But I will not force you back, _yeled_. Just know that the next to fetch you may not be as kind as Uriel or me. They may try to use force. You still only have four of your wings; will you be able to stand before the might of the Seraphim?”

Stubbornly, Castiel had muttered, “I will do what I must. I will stay with Dean.”

Anael had laughed lightly. "As I thought. I jumped at the chance to visit earth and see you, but I knew there would be no changing your mind!" She had pressed a kiss to Castiel’s forehead and had whispered, “May our Father grant you favor, littlest angel. I pray you do not regret it.” He had watched her disappear with a strong flap of her cream-colored wings, and had sat down to brood more on what he had to do next. The next contingent from Heaven would not be forgiving. He was breaking Michael’s laws of Heaven, and Michael was a stickler for protocol. But Castiel just knew he was meant to be on earth.

He knew it.

With Anael gone, he strategized his next step. He had another suspicion as to why Michael was particularly angry with him, and Raphael, well, it did not take much to anger him. A weak breeze knocking a feather askew could send him in a good sulk until his wings were preened and groomed right. Dean would deem him a “tight ass.”

He reasoned the Verrat were only after _him_ , after his power, and Anael was right: if he left Dean, Dean would be safe. He could not, in all good consciousness, dismiss that as a solution. But he wouldn't. And Dean said he would fight. Dean and Bobby were Grimms; they weren't helpless. Castiel had also helped shored up the wards, killed the lookout, and was keeping an eye out for interlopers. Surely it would be enough…?

He flew back to Dean, sensing him in his bedroom. He found him sitting on the bed, tying his boots. He also smelled different, cleaner, but there was a musky scent beneath that, and Castiel scented the air minutely, seeking it out.

_Ah, there. The same scent as the Room. He has pleasured himself._

Castiel felt heat pool in his abdomen at the scent that even soap could not completely destroy and felt it swirl down to his loins. He ignored it, in the face of incoming events, but in that brief interim, Dean said, “Heya, what’s the word, Cas?”

_“It’s a shortened version of my name.”_

“Ha ha. Yes, it is. Smart ass.”

“We need to talk…”

Dean paused in his tying and looked up at Cas with concern. Cas swallowed hard, his lust lingering and not giving ground when confronted with those grass-green eyes framed with dark lashes still damp from his shower. “Well, what is it?” Dean asked.

 _“We have incoming, most likely in before this evening,”_  he said, feeling the connection between them already in a weakened state. Or perhaps he wanted it to be weaker, just eager to feel those plump lips on his again. His gaze wandered from Dean’s eyes to his lips, still pink and slightly swollen. Castiel suspected Dean had bitten down on them while pleasuring himself. He wondered why he hadn't noticed Dean’s lustful thoughts, reaffirming that he needed to reconnect them with his grace. He felt his loins stir with his heat, and he shifted from foot to foot to try and alleviate the heavy ache.

Dean’s look sharpened and his lips tucked in with urgency. He bent back over, pulling his laces with a violent tug, his tshirt sliding up in the back and revealing a strip of skin with his movements. Cas licked his lips and tried not to stare. He was still feeling needy, and Dean smelled so good. Bathed, he smelled lightly of coconut and powder above the scents of leather and gun oil, and beneath all that, something that was intrinsically Dean.

Dean stood up and said, “Let’s get Bobby and then we can strategize. He’s probably—”

A proper Angel of the Lord was blessed with infinite patience. This was how Castiel knew he was not a proper angel, and would probably fare better on earth than in Heaven. When Dean stood, he was much closer to Castiel than he had realized. The smell of his spent desire was much stronger, and the warmth of Dean's flesh felt like sunshine on his deprived skin. Castiel, already in the grip of his own eroticism, could no longer tolerate it: he grabbed Dean by the neck and kissed him.

The surprised and muffled “umph!” from Dean didn't stop him from returning the favor rather quickly. He immediately moaned at the feel of Castiel’s mouth, and licked at the seam of his lips, demanding entry. Castiel allowed him in, the feel of Dean’s slightly swollen lips exactly want he wanted, his fingers in Dean’s hair, carding through the still wet strands, and pulling him as close as possible. He felt Dean’s hands at his waist, sliding underneath his shirt, and Castiel was surprised by his own gasp and moan, as his hips rolled against Dean, starved for contact. Dean groaned hotly into his mouth, slipping his hand into the gap in the back of his borrowed jeans down to Castiel’s posterior, grabbing a handful of firm flesh and gripping it tightly. Castiel yelped, and Dean chuckled into his neck, leaving a trail of kisses and sucking on his adam’s apple.

“Oh shit, oh fuck,” he murmured against the skin behind Castiel’s ear. “You are so fucking hot. God, I want you so bad.”

Castiel gasped and moved to give Dean more access to his throat. Dean nuzzled there, biting lightly and licking his way up to Castiel’s ear, marking him with purple bruises to proclaim his ownership. Dean's hand kneaded Castiel’s fundament with desperate palms and needy fingers, his other smoothed up and down Castiel's waist and gripped his hip with strong callused fingertips. Castiel shuddered in his embrace, wanting more, but not knowing exactly how or what. Dean’s lips claimed his again, and he could taste his own sweat on Dean’s tongue, a hot bouquet of yearning and sex that made him sob into Dean’s mouth. His grace leaked out between them, hitching them closer together than any physical touch, and this time Dean whimpered at the electric feel that grew between them. He rocked his hips against Castiel and ground their erections together. That desperate hot feeling grew inside of Castiel and he rasped out Dean’s name as his body released its pleasure in a searing white light that made him throw his head back while his member ejaculated in his pants.

As he tried to catch his breath, Dean chuckled darkly into Castiel’s [suprasternal notch](http://youtu.be/JV4s7lqlj7U), licking the sensitive spot with the tip of his tongue, tasting the sweat that had collected there. Castiel's head lolled back and he panted into the soft hair above Dean's ear, his body lax and an uncomfortable wet spot in his pants. "Is it always...?"

Dean looked up at him, his green eyes dark with lust, and smirked. "Most of the time, it's better. I didn't even get you to the bed," he chuckled, straightening just enough to dip his head, catching Castiel's lips with his own. The kiss was much slower, but still filled with heat, and Dean bemoaned, "You're going to be the death of me!" 

Castiel could feel that Dean had not achieved orgasm, not like he had, and he said, "Let me take care of you."

Dean blinked at him, unsure of himself and the situation, but Castiel's pure desire to please him burned through their link, and he nodded slowly. 

As Castiel leaned in to kiss Dean again, to rekindle their heat, there was a tentative knock at the door.

"Boys?" Karen opened the door a crack and peeked in. Dean had stepped away from Castiel at the knock, but there was no hiding the red in their cheeks or their swollen lips, and especially the scent of sex that hung in the air. Karen herself blushed as she watched them shuffle away from each other, and she coughed uncomfortably and said, "Uh, I need some help with dinner. Could you give me a hand."

Dean's face was flushed to his ears, and he lowered his gaze to his feet as he nodded. "Yeah, Karen. We'll be right down." 

Karen looked at Castiel and said softly, "I... I have something for you too, angel. Um, I'll go downstairs."

Dean blew out the breath he had been holding and, as he passed Castiel, he pressed a kiss to his lips. "Later, I guess, angel," he murmured against them. Castiel sighed and nodded, cleaning off his ejaculate with his grace, and following Dean out the door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Yeah, I had serious issues with the shower scene and I couldn't... coax Cas into it. Damn it. PLEASE comment on the sex scenes; I'm VERY nervous about writing smut, and I need encouragement... A LOT OF IT BECAUSE I'M A NERVOUS NELLIE!!
> 
> Any way, serious notes:
> 
> 1) The First Sphere, Moon Garrison, is reference to Dante's Paradiso. It's where the "inconsistent" go when they fail to keep their vows. Basically, vows are made in a contract with God, where their 'free will' is the gift in exchange for whatever it is they are doing. Basically, people lack fortitude to keep their vows (esp. w/god). Fourth Sphere is the Sun, where the Virtues and the "Wise" live. 
> 
> 2) Seelenguten are sheep. Look at a Creche. Sheep. ;)
> 
> 3) FRENCH TRANSLATION:  
> a) You don't understand! I am Verrat! They're coming for you! Let me go!  
> b) I don't know! Fuck! Let me go!
> 
> 4) Shidduch: Introductions made in the Jewish communities for arranged marriages. Prospective partners are sought and matchmade. (Or so says the Internet.)
> 
> 5) yeled: Hebrew - child. (Ditto. Da net.)  
> ==============================================
> 
> BESTIARY:  
> Hundjäger: a vicious hound dog-like Wesen. They are the Verrat's main enforcers. Hundjägers are fast, clever, cold and calculating, making them ideal for professions like assassinations and bounty hunting.
> 
> Seelenguten: A sheep-like Wesen that grows wool all over, sheep-ears emerge, and bright blue eyes. They are very shy and docile, preferring to be in groups. Seelenguten is the plural for Seelengut (the sheep Wesen). 
> 
> Steinadlers: When woged, they gain muzzle-like face and a beak-like nose. They have sparse feather-like hair all over their body. They retain their human hair color, while their eyes are an extremely pale yellowish-green color. Like a few Wesen, they can localize their woge in their eyes without altering the rest of their body. They are oddly persuasive in a stern, frank manner.
> 
> Virtues: Angels of the Fourth Sphere and guardians/guides for humanity.
> 
> Zauberbiest: Male witch version of Hexenbiest, these Wesen have visibly decaying flesh, like a zombie, when woged. They are powerful, and can create/use spells.  
> ==============================================  
> Comments/complaints/opinions... all welcomed. Next chapter, Verrat catch up, Karen gives Cas a gift, character death occurs, and, well, stuff.


	15. Plumed Serpent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meg makes a brief appearance. Karen and Cas bond. Cas receives gifts. Dean peels potatoes. Verrat arrive in SD. Bobby is exhausted and tired of this BS. Most of all, there's PIE.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My profound apologies. A veritable mountain of fecal matter made contact with the rotating blades of an air manipulation device, creating a fast-moving tributary, and leaving me stranded in its currents, while sitting in a single-person floating vessel without a navigation device. 
> 
> It's been a very hard couple of weeks.
> 
> Actual Note: This chapter is VERY LONG, and I split it because it's just TOO long. I mean, it's currently long, but it was MUCH, MUCH LONGER. And I know why it's long but... Karen is seriously adorable with Cas and Dean. Or Cas and Dean are just cute. I dunno. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone for the kudos and for reassuring me about the sex scene last chapter. I fixed the awkward physical aspects. Kudos for this story generally shock me, but make me feel appreciated though. I don't expect them, so if you want to surprise me, try that.
> 
> I don't think there's any triggers, but uh... Srly, if I miss one, tell me.
> 
> Title from GRIMM S1 E14, where Nick meets the Dämonfeuer, the dragon Wesen who use copper to literally bring down the lightning.

> _They can't have you_  
>  _Keeping you for myself_  
>  They can't have you  
>  _Me and no one else_  
>  They can't have you  
>  _I won't let you down_  
>   
>  _I can't let you go_
> 
> _I'm gonna save your life_  
>  I'm gonna save your life  
>   
>  _You must believe I'm on your side_  
>  _You've got to breathe to be alive, babe_
> 
> _I won't let you down_
> 
> _Les Friction --[Save Your Life](http://youtu.be/shCLy3DcPk0)_

**LAS VEGAS, NEVADA (mostly)**

There was one thing that every demon knew: if you wanted to find something extremely rare, possibly only legendary, your best bet was to use a crossroads demon.

This created something of an issue for Meg, though, seeing as she hated Crowley (pompous ass King of the Crossroads) and he hated her. And she _hated_ this, _hated_ this more than she possibly hated anything. She had an obligation, however, to her father, and he expected her to hold up her end of his bargain with Lucifer: capturing or killing the first angel. She sighed and went looking for a crossroads demon to talk to, to see if she couldn't deal away from Crowley. She had chosen her cause; now she had to see it through.

She tried a few demons on the fringes of demon society to find the name of someone willing to do business off the grid, and she managed to find a name: Guy. Guy worked out of Las Vegas and was apparently pulling in souls through a sales technique called “event planning.”

She had no fucking clue what that meant.

She went back up top via a backdoor that her dad owned, and found herself a new meat suit, some young woman who happened to pass the Trump Tower doorway on her way to the Fashion Show Mall. This time, it was a dark-haired woman, petite and pert. She looked down at the frump wear (Sure it’s a name brand, but a flowery sundress and cute sandals... what is she? Twelve?) the woman was sporting and quickly found herself a tshirt, jeans, black boots, and a motorcycle jacket that looked worn in enough to look legit. She didn't want to look like a damn poser, since she was the original bad girl. But she was about to crash a wedding, so she also needed something less “I’m going to kick your ass” and more “I would eat you alive.”

She snagged a few dresses off the racks at a fancy dress store, and, fifteen minutes later, decided on a little black vintage-look number that looked rockabilly enough to make her feel okay about it. She swished the fluffy skirt around, managed to tie the corseted back tightly enough to push up her breasts and cinch in her waist, and smoothed down the rich satin down her hips. Her make up was a slash of red lipstick, some black eyeliner, and more mascara. She pulled a pair of platform heels with the words “Love” and “Hate” in a tattoo style on the platform and considered herself dressed up enough to fit in. If they didn't like her outfit, fuck’em.

She got rid of the tags, shoved her other “purchases” into a Chanel bag she snagged from a display, and walked out the backdoor into the back lot where the store got its deliveries. She made a call on the meat suit’s phone and, five minutes later, her ride arrived. She slipped into the passenger's side and eyed her driver. She flicked her eyes to black and the grinning red head at the wheel flicked his eyes to black as well. “Take me to The Venetian.”

The red head smiled and flicked his eyes back to blue. “Yes m’am!”

Meg frowned and glared out the window. “Just… get me there, moron. And don’t call me ma’am.” 

**SIOUX FALLS, SOUTH DAKOTA -- SINGER SALVAGE YARD (315 PM CST)**

Karen was waiting for them in the kitchen, the tips of her ears still pink, and she seemed to have to collected herself before pushing a bag of potatoes at Dean. “Peel these.”

The five-pound bag looked like a bit much for four people, and he arched a brow at Karen. “All of it?”

She shrugged. “You eat like you’re dying, Dean. Make all of it and we’ll save the rest for later.”

Dean grinned. “Oh, snackage! Got it!” He got out a small knife from a drawer, closing it with his hip, pulled out a bowl from the cupboard, put down some newspaper, and started peeling.

Castiel watched Dean gleefully set up and looked over at Karen, who was also fondly watching Dean prep. “Is… is there anything for me to do..?” He asked tentatively. He knew that he made Karen nervous, and he didn't want to overwhelm her.

Karen looked into his eyes, determination radiating off of her. “Follow me,” she said, sticking her chin up stubbornly.

Castiel just nodded and turned to follow her, catching Dean’s amused smirk and wink. He heard Dean start to hum a song as he walked out of the kitchen and followed her as she climbed up the stairs. “I… I realize that I haven’t been very...welcoming,” she said, turning momentarily as they ascended, “But… Seelenguten have the Gospel of Simon Zelotes and he foretold… the coming of angels was…” She paused, a frown furrowing between her eyes, and Castiel, knowing how much this woman meant to Dean, reached his hand out and lightly touched her forearm.

“The Apocalypse.” He said this slowly, because he had also heard this prophecy, but he shook his head softly, holding her eyes. “I am not… the one.”

Her light blue looked down into his dark blue eyes swirling with clouds, and she nodded, patting his hand. “I’ll trust you because Dean trusts you.”

He tried to smile at her the way Dean did, and that seemed to frighten her a bit, so he thought about how she made Dean smile and tried again, and this time she huffed lightly and patted his cheek. “You poor angel. You don’t know anything, do you? Well, come on. I can tell you’re wearing Dean’s clothes. Let’s see if we can’t find something better for you…”

She led him to the extra bedroom, where Sam usually slept. There was a small desk and chair, with a small library with dictionaries in Latin and Ancient Greek. There was a small stuffed duck with off-center eyes and its tongue sticking out sitting crookedly next to the desk lamp. It looked like one of those toys won at the carnival. Next to the wall, the bed was narrow and covered with a quilt, a fat pillow up top.

There was another bookcase and there were a lot of books that said “Chemistry,” “Biology,” and “Philosophy.” If Sam had read all those books, Castiel could understand why Dean was so proud of his little brother. Most humans he had met didn't know anything about these things, much less read. Of course, his experiences up to this point, he had to concede, were less than optimal.

Karen pulled open the closet. In the back, there were a few wardrobe care cover bags. She pulled at them a bit, and then said, “Ah ha!” Triumphantly, she pulled out a dark gray cover and shook it. Dust flew up, and she coughed, waving her hand in the air, and trying to keep her face away from the particles. “I guess I should get in there more often,” she said, still coughing.

She tossed the bag on the bed and pushed the bags around a bit more. She pulled out another bag, this one a dark olive, and, this time, she didn't shake it. “Ah, I've been meaning to get in here and take these things to the Salvation Army or something, but I just kept forgetting.” She also tossed that on the bed and turned to dig at the the boxes on the bottom. “But you look the right size so let’s see what I can do.”

Castiel heard a muffled cry of triumph and Karen popped back up with two boxes and a canvas bag in her hand. “Here they are! Thank the Lord!”

Castiel took the boxes and the canvas bag from her, and, as she turned and started pulling things back in, he lifted the top of the first box. Inside were a pair of blackdress boots, somewhat broken in. He looked up as Karen straighten herself, and she smiled at him. “Well, let’s see what we've got!”

She took the bag, tugged open the string closure, and dumped the contents onto the bed. “This is a bunch of clothes that used to belong to Dean when he was younger. You’re not as tall, and you're thinner than he is, so this might work the best.”

She pulled a tshirt out of the pile and pushed it against Castiel’s chest, ignoring that he was still holding the boxes. “Yes, I think this will do. Turn around.”

The Angel of the Lord complied, hearing her dig through the clothes, and then felt something against his lower back. She hummed happily and said, “Yes! This will work very well!”

He turned to see what she was talking about, and she already had folded up two pairs of jeans and a few shirts. placing them in a neat pile. “There are a few boxers in here, and I can give you a package of socks that Bobby has squirreled away in case of emergency. The clothes are clean, but they smell a bit dusty, so I can just take them downstairs and get them nice and fresh!”

Castiel watched her happily pick out some pieces of clothing similar to what he had seen Dean wear and fold them on top of the neat pile she was accumulating. As she tidied the rest, she asked, “How did you meet Dean?”

Her tone was quiet, with a touch of concern. Castiel could understand why Dean had sunk so much love into this woman. She was a kind soul and, despite her fear of him, she was attempting to mother him too. He smiled faintly and replied, “He saved me.”

Karen paused in her folding clothes and sticking them in the bag to spear a glance at him. He held her glance, and she slowly went back to folding. “I see. They do that.” As she shoved the last of the clothing into the bag, she sighed. “Actually, that’s not true. These Grimms do that. Bobby and Dean do that. John kills Wesen on sight, just like most of the others.” She turned to face him, taking the boxes from him. “Grimms grow up thinking mercy will get them killed, and that all Wesen will try and kill them on sight. I was lucky Bobby found me, and that I got to raise Dean and Sam to be like Bobby too. I have been blessed.”

She put the boxes on the bed, moved the one with the boots to the side and opened the other one. There was a pair of sneakers in there, black and never worn. She chuckled, touching them. “They were a bit too tight, and he refused to wear them. They had also been on discount so I couldn't really return them. So I kept them to take with the rest of the clothes.” She handed him the box. “I guess God was speaking to me, and I just didn't realize it. Here. Try them on.”

He blinked at her and she pushed him towards the chair. He took a seat and she handed him the shoes. They were thankfully already laced, because he was pretty sure that, despite being a millennia-old angel, he would have problems with that. He slipped them on, and they were, despite everything else, pretty comfortable.

Karen grinned happily, and she pulled up one of the bags. “This is one of Bobby’s old suits. He used to be much thinner, but… you know…” She pinked up, her cheeks and ear tips going rosy, yet somewhat pleased with herself.

Castiel canted his head slightly, eyebrows drawn together somewhat. “I am sorry… I do not know.”

“He’s been married to me for almost twenty years. I've managed to fatten him up a bit,” she admitted shyly. She pushed the bag at the angel. “Here, take a look at this.”

Inside the bag was a dark gray suit. He pushed it open completely and eyed the clothing. “I…” He blinked at her owlishly. “What is this?”

“It’s a suit! If you hang out with Grimms long enough, you’re going to need one.” She chuckled, pulling it out of the bag for him. “I think you’ll fit into it, although you might be a bit shorter…”

Castiel pouted and said sullenly, “I… I am still growing.”

Karen smiled at him and patted his cheek. “I’m sure you are, sweetie.”

For some reason, the action did not comfort Castiel, and he felt the sullenness intensify.

_I’m big too!_

Dean actually caught the thought and pushed back concern, but Castiel internally sighed and sent comfort, that he was okay and not to worry. He felt Dean mentally nod and concentrate on peeling and chopping. Castiel was actually mildly surprised by the current strength of their bond, since it had not been a thought meant for Dean. Wonder simmered in his grace as he considered what it might mean. Perhaps that small sexual act had been enough to connect them more deeply? Would they have to renew the bond like that more often?

The thought of renewing their bond like that caused Castiel to shiver despite the warmth of the room. He thought of having Dean pressed against him again, the feel of their flesh touching, his grace reaching out to Dean’s soul and connecting… to have that be a permanent bond thrilled through his body and his wings flared and trembled in the ether.

He would have to seek revelation later, he knew. Anna was wrong. His Basherter was perfect: beautiful, strong, smart, and loving. There was no wrong shidduch here, not when he felt his soul so strongly.

Karen unzipped the final bag and pulled out the garment, getting Castiel’s attention by flapping it to make sure it was dust free. This time, it held Castiel’s eyes and he sucked in a breath. For some reason, he liked this garment. It was a beige overcoat with protection sigils glowing underneath the fabric. He touched it reverently as Karen held it up, and she smiled fondly at the thing.

“This was Bobby’s old trench coat. He used it for years, added extra spellwork to the lining to make himself a harder target. Even got some help from a Hexenbeist. I think he said her name was Eleanor. I’m pretty sure they used to date.” She made a moue of distaste but patted the coat. “Whatever. It kept him safe. It’s a bit too small in the shoulders for Dean, but you might be okay.”

He took it off the hanger and slipped it on, feeling the vague hum of inactive spells coming alive. It was comforting, an extra layer of protection. He smiled. “I like it. Thank you, Karen.”

Karen’s eyes got wide when he said her name, and she grinned. “Castiel, even if you bring down the Apocalypse, it’s been a pleasure to meet you.”

Castiel shook his head. “That’s not me,” he repeated. “But thank you, Karen.”

At least he _hoped_ it wasn't him. He followed her directions to the bathroom with clean clothes (because she ignored his stuttered statement that angels didn't need to bathe) and she walked behind him to make sure he did it.

Castiel undressed, the jeans easily sliding off his hips now that his grace wasn't holding them up, and he wondered, briefly, if this was what having a mother was like?

**SIOUX FALLS, SOUTH DAKOTA -- SIOUX FALLS REGIONAL AIRPORT (530 PM CST)**

Jody stepped out into the positively cool weather of Sioux Falls with a sigh. Compared to the blistering heat of Arizona and the hot, thin heat of Albuquerque, the moderate humidity and lower temperature of South Dakota felt almost wet and frigid.

She wrapped her overcoat a little more snugly around her fine-boned frame and was grateful she had kept it on after disembarking. It was going to take a little while to get used to the change in temperature, but this was her home turf, and she was used to it.

The two men were fine it seemed. Gordon was still just wearing his suit jacket, but Pegel was still wearing the dark blue coat he had arrived in. Even in the hot New Mexico weather, he had seemed untroubled by the heat. She had been sweating like a pig, and now she was freezing, but he looked fine. She looked over the whole of his 6’7” frame, wondering how anything so hulking could ever escape unnoticed, even if he was wearing nondescript dark blue jeans, a black turtleneck that made him look extra European, and sensible black shoes. His cold black eyes saw her looking at him and he impassively looked back, his heavy features unconcerned.

Jody suppressed a shudder and hoped Bobby just had the good sense to get the hell out of there and take Dean with him.

Behind her, Gordon rattled the keys of the rental car. “I got an SUV. We just need to go get our luggage from Baggage Claim.”

Pegel nodded, his black eyes like onyx chips on Jody as she hummed agreement. It was hard to smuggle weapons unless they were in checked bags. She wondered if they should have just called a private jet, but she didn't want to call any attention to them if possible and smaller airports would notice. To get the angel back to Austria, though, they were going to need that jet. And luck. A lot of luck. “I’ll go get the car, if you two can manage the baggage?”

Gordon nodded, flicking his gaze over to the giant Reaper with simmering hate, and turned to walk back into the building. She didn't get his issue with an additional male around, but she wasn't a Hundjäger, so she supposed she just wouldn't.

She could call Bobby. This was her chance. She could call them and warn them about the Reaper. But, then the angel would flee.

She bit her lip and worried it as she walked to the rental car parking lot. The mission was more important. Bobby could handle himself. They needed the angel, hell or high water.

**SIOUX FALLS, SOUTH DAKOTA -- SINGER SALVAGE YARD (345 PM CST)**

Cas came back downstairs with his hair soaking wet but clean and in new clothes. Dean grinned when he saw him, recognizing his clothes from a couple of years before. “Hey! You’re looking good!”

There was a weird feeling in his chest, that feeling of ownership that came from seeing Cas in his clothes, his wet hair plastered to his forehead as he plucked at the faded Ramones tshirt and droplets clinging to his skin. Dean nearly jumped up to nuzzle the angel, but his lack of attention came with a price, and he nicked himself.

“OW! GODDAMNIT!”

“DEAN!” Karen’s scandalized voice made Dean cringe in his seat. He lifted his eyes to her furious expression, and he tried for Sam’s puppy-dog look. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled around a mouthful of bloody finger. He had managed to stab his forefinger right below his knuckle, and it was bleeding pretty good.

He nearly didn't see Cas dash around the table and grab his hand out of his mouth with a pop. “Cas?”

“You’re injured,” Cas said slowly. He eyed the cut like it had mortally offended him and, without asking permission, licked it lightly.

Dean went completely still in his seat, as the tiny tingle of what he knew was grace raced through him like an electric shock. It made his heart beat faster, and the soft lick was a deliberate choice, he knew, because Cas was looking down at him, those sky blue eyes stormy with want. Dean swallowed hard, and felt the heat of embarrassment redden his face and neck as he pulled back on his hand. “Uh, thanks, Cas,” he said slowly as he retrieved his appendage. “It was just a small cut, though.”

Cas’s face was impassive, but he could feel the amusement just trilling in the bond between them. That was different. Strange, even. It was like the bond had gotten stronger, letting him feel Cas’s emotions. Before it had only been direct thoughts that had gotten through from him.

More amusement trilled through him, and he looked up to find Cas not even looking at him, but listening to Karen’s instruction for making a pie crust.

“Since Dean ate all of the one I baked before, I thought I might make a new one for dessert,” she said. She nudged Cas with her elbow, no longer afraid of him like before. Cas bent his head close to hers and listened carefully as she explained ice cold butter and flaky crusts. Dean still had one or two potatoes, as he had to also cut them into reasonable pieces so they cooked faster. Karen had taught him well.

He finished up the final few and put them in the bowl as Bobby strolled into the room looking rattled and exhausted. He took one look at the domestic scene and let out a huge exasperated sigh. “Feathers, did you snuff some Verrat fella out by the edge of the property?”

Surprise nailed Dean to the chair as Cas turned and eyed the older man, while Karen looked shocked. Cas tilted his head slightly and squinted at Bobby as if he were debating whether or not to reply, and then he said in his gravelly voice, “He was spying. He was a threat.”

Bobby’s face squished together in a way that Dean knew he wanted to swear, but couldn't because Karen was standing right there. Instead, he snarled, “Balls..!” and swiped off his cap, rubbing his forearm against his brow. “The Verrat are not going to take kindly to one of theirs being so nonchalantly crispy crittered from the inside out.”

Dean frowned. “What happened?”

“Your boyfriend over there burned out the fella’s eyes and left him black around the edges like a burnt tortilla chip.” Bobby pulled the cap back over his head with a snap of his wrist and grumbled, “Now I’m going to have to move that damn car, but if the Verrat find it…”

Cas stared at Bobby with clear blue eyes, looking as if he didn't quite understand the problem.

Dean (having turned bright red and feeling mortified by Bobby calling Cas his boyfriend) finally said, “Cas, we can’t just kill people and leave them there for others to find. We have to get rid of the evidence.” Those gorgeous baby blues snapped over to him and he felt the tingle of their attention on his skin. “The Verrat will be super pissed if they find out we killed one of theirs.”

Cas frowned and considered it briefly. “Are you in danger,” he asked solemnly.

Dean huffed. “Well, it definitely not helping the situation, what with the Verrat just about to pay us a visit.”

As if a switch had been flipped, those eyes went from clear to stormy and dark, the lightning edging out the sides. “I will fix it, then,” he growled and disappeared.

Bobby eyed Dean, who just shrugged, and then they all felt it: the buildup of electricity in the air. It built up until the fine hair on their arms stood straight up and it was a buzz along their skin. Then there was the feeling like a missile had struck nearby, causing the house to shift, rattle and shake briefly, followed by an intense and heavy roll of thunder that reverberated through the air like a sonic boom, rattling the dishes in the cabinet and forcing them all to clap their hands over their ears in pain. Bobby and Dean ran to the windows, while Karen hung back, terrified.

They could see smoke coming from the edge of the property, the nearby flora smoldering. The scent of ozone has thick and burned in their nostrils, and Bobby muttered, “What the hell?”

There was a flutter of wings and Cas stood in the kitchen again. He said, “I took care of it.” He started to turn back to Karen, but Dean said, “Wait! Cas! What did you do?”

Those burning blue eyes glittered for a moment, and he repeated slowly, “I took care of it.” He put out a palm, like he was holding something in it, and electricity crackled from his fingers, forming a small ball of lightning. He closed his fist over it, his gaze shifting to Bobby, and, nodding, again turned to Karen to finish making the pie.

Dean shared looks with Bobby, and Bobby whistled low and incredulously. Dean swallowed, and said, “So, uh, Cas… just to make sure I get it… you, uh, hit the car with a lightning bolt?”

Cas nodded from where he was watching Karen shakily trying to make the pie. “ _We have maybe a few hours left. You must make the most of them._ ”

Dean hmm’d and told Bobby about their incoming guests. Bobby tucked his lips in, rubbed his eyes with exhaustion with the heels of his palms, and turned back towards the library. Dean tried to decide what to do, since he still had the potatoes to make, and there were string beans to clean, but…

_Yeah. Let’s cook first, get ready later. Who knows when we’ll have another chance?_

After all, Bobby had reinforced the wards, he had done his research, Cas was a bad ass, and Bobby owned an arsenal. They would be fine. Probably.

Suddenly nervous, Dean redoubled his efforts and decided to help Bobby prepare for battle as soon as he finished prepping the beans. 

Outside, sirens approached the burning wreck.

**SIOUX FALLS, SOUTH DAKOTA -- SINGER SALVAGE YARD (500 PM CST)**

The police and fire department were still out by the burning wreckage when they finished dinner. Bobby had had to leave earlier, despite being so tired he was running on fumes, just knowing his lack of presence was going to call attention to them. It was his property, after all, and, as the paranoid, nosy old coot he was, he would have gone to investigate.

Cas was helping Karen clean up while Dean double checked their defenses, the hidden spots for the weapons, and kept an eye on the phones. Overall, it was frighteningly quiet out there; it made him even more nervous.

Dean slumped into a chair at the kitchen table, took out his phone, and flipped it open, going to his contacts list. He found Sam's number and just stared at it. He wanted to call Sam, but he knew that Sam had either ditched his phone or left it turned off. He had been trying to call Sam the whole time before his dad had ditched him and there was no answer, not even voicemail. He thought about calling John, but, no. John would just lecture him about hiding at Bobby’s like a whipped dog instead of helping him find Sam.

Dean didn't want to deal with it. Not so close to a battle. He wanted to talk to Sam, just in case something happened. His little brother would be left with their dad if the Reaper managed to kill him. It worried him more than possibly dying, because Sammy deserved better than their old man riding him for every little thing. Then again, Sam was stronger than Dean, so maybe he would be fine. Still… his little brother was brilliant and wanted to be normal so badly. Left with John, what chance would he have for college and all that? Dean rubbed a hand over his face, sighing heavily. He didn't even want to think about it. Not now.

A wave of concern came from his angel, and he had to smile. He looked over to where his angel had his hands deep in sudsy water, his bright blue eyes cloudy with concern. He shook his head and pushed back that he was fine. Cas nodded and turned back to the pot he was scrubbing with ludicrous excitement. But then again, Cas had never washed a pot, so it was probably exciting for him to do something so mundane.

Without meaning to, Dean’s eyes lingered over Cas’s back, the long lines of his body, the strong but thin frame that felt so awesome under his hands. He licked his lips while looking the curve of Cas’s neck as he scrubbed, the slight flex and bulge of muscles under the tshirt mesmerizing. He suddenly realized that the hickeys that he had left on that pale column had already healed, that they had all disappeared, and his “claim” was gone. Something primal in his gut growled, and, again, he felt that heated desire to own building in his veins. It was strange, because no one had ever made him feel like that. Sure, he had had sex before ~~a lot before really~~ , but the desire to monopolize, that was new.

As Dean’s gaze swept over and appreciated Cas’s ass, remembering the feel of it under his palms, the angel suddenly straightened and shuddered. He turned to look over at Dean again, his eyes also hungry, and Dean could tell the want that he was feeling wasn't just his own.

A not-so-subtle cough interrupted their staring, and they both turned startled faces to Karen. Karen, who was red as a tomato, and holding the finished pie in her oven-mitt covered hands. “Um, I don’t know if I’m interrupting something but… the pie is done.”

Dean grinned, winked at Cas, and said salaciously, “You can interrupt anything for pie, especially Cas’s pie. I’m sure that it’s delicious.”

Karen gave him a reproving look, and, if possible, colored harder. “Dear God, young man, I do not need to hear that sort of talk from you. Especially about an Angel of the Lord!”

Dean stood up and strolled over to Cas, who had obviously not understood the undertones, and pulled him in by the jean loops. “Yes, Karen. But he’s _my_ Angel.” He dropped a light kiss onto Cas’s lips, ignoring Karen’s embarrassed gasp. She had already caught them at worse; what was one little kiss?

Cas smiled and looked up at Dean from under his lashes, and it took all of Dean’s strength to let him go.

“ _You are my Basherter. I will always come to you when you call._ ”

As Cas turned to get plates for the pie, Dean asked, “Cas, what does _bah-shir-ter_ mean?”

Cas turned back to face him, his eyes hooded. He licked his lips, drawing Dean’s attention with the tiny motion, and, with obvious discomfort, he said, “My destiny.”

_That… that was not what I was expecting._

“And, uh, what does that mean, exactly?”

_Better not mean what I think it does…_

Cas colored prettily under his scrutiny, the flush of color rushing up his pale neck and over his face and ears. “ _Dean, now is not the time...the explanation is rather long and…_ “

This wasn't the first time Cas had evaded the question, and it made him suspicious. But Dean nodded slowly, figuring that if Cas didn't want to talk about it now, they would do it later. If they had time. For now, he could just ignore it.

He fetched some forks and a pie-knife, and gleefully sat down as Cas put a small stack of dessert plates down. Karen carefully carved a piece of the pie out, and, as it was still rather hot, told Dean to get the ice cream out of the freezer.

Dean practically leaped from his seat like a startled gazelle, surprising Cas as he dashed past him to the freezer, nearly cackling maniacally as he pulled out the container of vanilla and held it aloft like an idol. “Yeeesssss!”

He fished out an ice cream scoop out of the drawer (Karen hated it when they just used spoons) and threw himself sideways into his chair, holding his bounty.

Karen just smiled at him and put the piece of apple pie on the plate, passing it to him, and he crowed with delight at the steamy, gooey deliciousness that was set in front of him. He scooped out some ice cream to top it, and then just grinned at the plate. “It’s beautiful,” he murmured reverently, scenting the pastry with tears of joy in his eyes. The delicate scent of vanilla, apples, and cinnamon assaulted his nose, and the moan he released was debauched. He set down the plate and just admired it, ignoring Cas’s vaguely disturbed, vaguely jealous expression.

“Dean, you haven’t even tasted it yet…”

Dean grinned at him and pointed at the plate of now-melting ice cream and quickly cooling pie. “You and Karen made this for me! It’ll be awesome!”

Cas blinked and then a slow, pleased smile inched up his face, an expression he shared with Karen, who smiled proudly back.

Dean carefully took a forkful and ate it, his eyes closed in anticipation, and a nearly pornographic moan escaped him. “Holy shit, this pie is like magic!”

Karen said, “Dean! Language!” But she was still smiling as she passed Cas his own piece of pie. She asked him, “Would you like some ice cream with that?”

Blue eyes snapped over to Dean, who was mid-bite. Dean shrugged and said around the pie in his maw, “You should try it, Cas.”

Cas nodded and watched as Karen put a scoop of ice cream over his slice. He then took a fork and eyed the pastry with some trepidation.

“Just cut a small bite of the pie, make sure you have some ice cream on it, and eat it,” Karen said encouragingly.

Cas did as she said, and then squinted suspiciously at the bite until he shoved it in his mouth as if to get it over with. His face relaxed and he smiled faintly.

“This makes me happy.”

Dean smiled that Cas liked pie. Karen smiled fondly to see the boys oblivious to everything around them except each other and the sweet taste of pie.

**SIOUX FALLS, SOUTH DAKOTA -- SINGER SALVAGE YARD (530 PM CST)**

Bobby returned as soon as he could from the site. The sheriff and the fire department investigators had wanted to ask him questions regarding the man who had parked, for some unknown reason, outside his property line.

He could truthfully say he had no real idea, and the lightning strike had been thorough in destroying all the evidence. The car was partially flattened from the strength of the hit and the consuming heat, the electrical systems completely shot, the air bags deployed and burnt to black scraps, tires melted into the ground, and the seats burned out to mere springs. There was a skeleton left inside the driver’s side, charred to the core and fragile, and the area around the strike was also burnt and partially concave, as if the strike had carved out a piece of earth. The bushes had been still alight with flames and smoldering when Bobby arrived, the dirt road was black with the upper layer of dirt being burnt and, underneath the car, it had turned to glass.

Really, the level of damage was unthinkable, and Castiel had done it in mere seconds.

Bobby had, of course, dug into the car and taken out anything that looked remotely helpful when he first saw it: a cellphone that proved wiped; a map to his property with all the old wardings marked; a notebook of his activities in detail, and, boy, wasn't that embarrassing. But, if he had known Castiel's plan, he could have left them all in the car for all the evidence that was left in the wreck. Made his life easier. _Oh, well, live and learn._

Thing was, Dean had even told him that Castiel was weaker than the other angel, the one that had called down a meteor strike, and if that wasn't frightening, he didn't know what was. These creatures were more powerful than anything he had faced before, and it made him nervous.

He managed to get free of the investigation, since it really did look like a fluke of nature and some schmuck’s unlucky day. But he was exhausted. He had been up way too long, and the 20-minute cat nap he had managed wasn't doing it for him anymore. Add that he was getting on in age, and that he couldn't pull all the sleep deprived crap he had as a twenty-something, and he knew he was descending down that slippery slope of crabby as hell. Good thing he was going to get to kill things, because that was the only thing keeping him upright at this point. 

When he returned to the house, he found Dean grinning and leaning into the angel’s side, trying to shovel a huge bite of pie into the angel's mouth. The angel looked alarmed at the size of the bite, while Karen just watched their antics with an affectionate expression. He hated to interrupt them, but business called, and who knew how long they had until the Verrat finally showed? He hoped it was soon; he was tired of waiting.

“You idjits done eating? Go clean up and then, Dean, you and me… we gotta talk.”

Dean immediately snapped to attention at Bobby’s voice, his face going neutral at Bobby’s presence. Bobby hid another sigh, knowing Dean was uncomfortable with Bobby knowing he liked the angel, but there was bigger fish to fry than his little romance. 

Dean nodded and started to pick up the plates, and the angel touched his hand and caught his eyes. Bobby watched that silent conversation pass between them, and then a small relieved smile curved Dean’s lips and something soft and affectionate colored his gaze. It made Bobby feel like he was intruding on something more intimate than picking up the dishes. He coughed loudly, and Dean actually jumped a tad at the sound. He smiled at the angel again, winking, as he turned to Bobby and nodded. “I’ll be right back.”

As he ran upstairs, Bobby yelled, “And bring yer bag!”

The angel cleared the table as Karen put away the ice cream and pie, looking domesticated despite his ability to smite. Bobby just had to hope that the love he was watching bloom in his nephew was enough to make this work, because he had never seen Dean take to anyone or anything the way he was taking to this blue-eyed Angel of the Lord. The only person he had ever showered with that much love was Sam.

Karen turned her own reassuring smile on him, and he deflated. “Damn idjits are going to be the death of me,” he grumbled, and made his way back to his desk to get out the fake IDs and credit cards he had started preparing for Dean.

He seriously hoped the Verrat would come soon, just so he could stop worrying about Dean’s cutesy romcom playing out in his very own kitchen, and kill things.

He was getting too old for this shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: 1) Once, when I was driving through Missouri into Kansas, a lightning bolt hit like five miles (8km) away, but it was SO big that, even from that distance, it looked 10-feet (3m) wide. It was so huge that the earth actually heaved and the highway actually shifted under the car, shaking it, and the thunder afterwards scared the fuck out of me (i.e., I nearly fainted and/or threw up on the spot). Seeing as I was already scared of lightning, that leveled me up to terrified. As in, if you ever want to watch me involuntarily burst into tears, force me to drive in a lightning storm. I will cry and shake and freak out. I don't mess with Mother Nature.
> 
> 2) Sorry about all the pie stuff. Dean isn't the only one with a fixation. PIE FOR LIFE! CHERRY PIE!! APPLE PIE!! PECAN!!! OMG!
> 
> 3) Shidduch: Introductions made in the Jewish communities for arranged marriages. Prospective partners are sought and matchmade. (Or so says the Internet.)  
> \---------------------------  
> BESTIARY  
> Hexenbiest: Zombie-looking Wesen when woged with witch powers. 
> 
> Hundjäger: Hound-like Wesen.  
> =========================================  
> The next chapter is all action and DONE (since it was half of this one). It'll be up very soon.


	16. There's no love in this violence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pegel gets his shot. Bobby holds his own. Cas is unlucky. Y'know... Action. Canon-level violence. Minor character death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I gave this chapter to my friend and SHE said, "I don't see it" thus I rewrote it with tears of blood and plenty of snot, and I'm still not certain it makes a lick of sense. Ah, writing. 
> 
> Also, thanks to everyone who gave me kudos. I was very grateful and genuinely shocked. 
> 
> TW:  
> \- violence.  
> \- minor character death  
> \- PTSD  
> \- grieving
> 
> If I miss anything, tell me. No sweet stuff this chapter. And with the length, well, now you know why I cut it into two chapters. (Title is from the song Torture by Les Friction.)

> _Never considered it futile_   
>  _to carry the weight of your pain._   
>  _A gift conceived by angels_   
>  _Dark blessings offered in vain_
> 
>   
>  _I stood outside when the roof gave in_   
>  _You called from the wreckage you were lying in_   
>  _You were out of reach and were out of time_   
>  _But I took it all and towed that line_   
>  _You held my hand and pulled me down with you..._
> 
> _~ Les Friction -[Torture](http://youtu.be/b2jmC8-bP5g)_

**SIOUX FALLS, SOUTH DAKOTA -- SINGER SALVAGE YARD (600 PM CST)**

There was a bit of hiccup. As they approached Bobby’s it was obvious that something had happened that warranted police and fire department presences. As they pulled up the road to where they were supposed to meet their contact (according to Bela), it became increasingly obvious that the “something” was a charred spot that used to be a car, and the mortuary wagon that had passed them further up undoubtedly contained their contact.

Jody stopped the SUV. “I think I need to get a better view of this.”

She stepped out of the vehicle and climbed on top. Once up there, she woged and looked out towards the cluster of people. _Looks like a bomb hit_ , she thought. The damage to the area was pretty intense with heat damage. The car was partially melted into the earth. She doubted their contact had survived whatever had hit them.

She woged, climbed down, and leaned against the passenger door, since Gordon had opened the window for them to talk. “I think our contact was just carted off. I’m also 99% sure he was burnt crispy from the look of it.”

Gordon frowned, but, from shotgun, Pegel said, “No matter. We will still go forward.”

Gordon glared at the back of Pegel’s seat. “We don’t have any idea what the perimeter wards are like.”

Jody hummed and said, “Well, I have some idea, but I don’t doubt that man changed them or made them stronger.”

“That man?”

Jody avoided Gordon’s narrow-eyed stare. “Yes, well, I knew Singer in high school.”

Pegel huffed out a laugh. “You were friends with a Grimm?”

“You could say that.”

Gordon scowled. “Did you _date_ him?”

Jody speared a look at him. “That's irrelevant, isn’t it? Now what do we want to do? I think I can check the edges of the wards without alerting him, and maybe reverse engineer what he has set up, but it’s going to take awhile without any help.”

Gordon motioned for her to move, which she did, and he got out of the SUV. “I can help. I have some knowledge of wards.”

Pegel's black eyes shifted off to where Bobby’s house sat in the middle of a forest of cars. “Are you sure we have that time to waste?”

She shrugged. “With the dead operative, we can’t assume they don’t know we’re coming. They aren’t stupid either, especially Singer. They may be lying in wait for us, for all we know.”

Pegel woged and grinned ferally at them, the row of shark’s teeth gleaming in the late afternoon light. “Then I have a plan…”

**SIOUX FALLS, SOUTH DAKOTA -- SINGER SALVAGE YARD (600 PM CST)**

Bobby was napping to get the edge off his exhaustion, while Karen was upstairs knitting, and Cas was on the roof keeping watch. Bobby had placed Dean in charge of things while he napped.

As such, Dean had taken out all of the weapons he had in his duffle and decided to review his ammunition and clean his guns. So on the kitchen table, spread on top of an old blanket Karen had given him, were his favorite pearl-handled Colt 1911 A1, a Colt .357 revolver, a sawed-off double-barrel shotgun with silver buckshot cartridges, his Bowie knife, the small switchblade, and his small collapsible crossbow with a double-shot capacity (Bobby called it a [Doppelarmbrust](http://grimm.wikia.com/wiki/Doppelarmbrust)) with hollow-tipped bolts. He liked that one for poisons, potions, and other things he needed to take down a rampaging Wesen. Bobby said it was an antique and was used to take down Blutbaden. Dean just liked the sound of the bolt’s release. It was cool. But not like his dad’s huge collapsible that he kept in the trunk, which was powerful as hell, but too heavy to carry in his duffle.

As he polished his guns, he thought through the types of Reapers that might come after him. It was most likely a [Hässlich](http://grimm.wikia.com/wiki/Reaper), since those bastards were recruited for the job the most often. Fucking Hässlich, with their thick skin and damned enhanced strength. Last time one had gone up against his dad, Dean got a lesson in what not to do, since multiple 9mm gunshots had done nothing more than piss the Wesen off. The shotgun should work, but to get the full effect, he’d have to get in very close, and that seemed extremely dangerous when the bastards were fast as hell and mean to boot.

Dean looked over his small but familiar stack of weapons, putting the A1 at the small of his back and the .357 in the holster around his calf. His first weapon would be the shotgun, though, because it had the highest probability of success. He was just in a dark green tshirt and jeans, his work boots scuffed but thankfully serviceable. He looked over at the already cleaned pile of weapons that Bobby had dragged out for him strip and polish: a sawed-off and a combat shotgun; a scimitar from the Crusades that Bobby said was blessed by three saints and had decapitated a coven of Hexenbiest; a set of silver daggers; a well-used, studded-baseball bat-looking [kanabo](http://grimm.wikia.com/wiki/Kanabo) that had had crud (AKA: blood) crusted in the crevices of the sharpened studs; and a set of [three-bladed knives](http://grimm.wikia.com/wiki/Three_Bladed_Knife) that Bobby had gotten from Mary before she died. Dean had really looked over the [three-bladed knives](http://grimm.wikia.com/wiki/Three_Bladed_Knife), noting the insignia at the bottom. He knew Mary had been part of some famous family, but no one ever wanted to talk about it. He had just cleaned the blades as instructed, making sure the mechanical devices to spread the blades were free of dirt and blood.

He picked up the [three-bladed knives](http://grimm.wikia.com/wiki/Three_Bladed_Knife) and was about to put them away, when a feeling of intrusion shuddered through them and a sound like a giant plate of glass shattering echoed through the house. Dean dropped the knives and stood up from the table, looking to Bobby, pulling out his own shotgun. Shotguns were the best bet against large enemies in small quarters, and they had discussed that in the defensive stance pow wow earlier.

Bobby jumped up from the couch, and Karen came running down the stairs, looking scared. As Bobby scrambled for his weapons, he yelled, “That'll be the wards breaking. Karen, get to the basement, now!”

She nodded, and swiftly made her way downstairs.

Cas appeared in the kitchen wearing a trench coat for some reason, and Dean threw Bobby’s sawed off towards him. Cas looked at it, confused. “I don’t know how to use this…?”

Bobby, having tucked his favorite Ruger into the back of his pants picked up the combat shotgun, hefting it. “Just point and shoot it, idjit,” he gritted, making sure that Dean had properly loaded his shotgun. He slung the [kanabo](http://grimm.wikia.com/wiki/Kanabo) into the sheath for the shotgun. It looked like it was an uncomfortable fit but it worked. “Incoming.”

It wasn’t entirely unexpected; Dean had thought of doing the same thing since the front yard was the most vulnerable vantage point: Karen’s cultivated garden and the manicured lawn gave a clear shot up to the house. Although Bobby had planted trees around the edges for some privacy, they weren’t fully grown yet. The intruders rammed the front of the house with the SUV, the whole vehicle up the porch, smashing through the doorway, making it through the hall, and landing partially in the kitchen. Glass and wood shattered, and the kitchen table was knocked backward. The issue with ramming the house was, of course, Bobby had rebuilt parts of the house’s frame with iron plating, especially around the library. It meant the SUV did not make it as far in as the Verrat anticipated, and it was that small ricochet off the edge of library wall that landed the SUV partially in the kitchen.

When the SUV had slammed through the doorway, Cas had pushed Dean out of the way, and he bounced slightly with an “Oof!” against far bookshelf behind him and into the wall.  

A huge man kicked out the passenger’s side door and, with a tap to base of his weapon, an oversized scythe blade popped into place. He woged and, as Dean suspected, he was a Hässlich. _This_ , Dean thought, _is obviously the Reaper. Like the scythe wasn't enough of a clue._

The Hässlich grinned maniacally and hissed, “Griiimm…”

_Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck._

The Hässlich was huge. Easily twice as tall as the one his dad had fought and (honestly) barely beaten.

Bobby got a shot off, but from his position in the library, the buckshot didn’t do much to the Hässlich. He ignored the interference and moved towards Dean with pure murderous intent on his face.

Cas started to also move forward to intercept the gigantic Reaper, when a female voice yelled out, “ _Pizid noco iad!_ ”

Dean heard Cas scream as he suddenly curled up in pain and fell to the floor. A woman popped out of the remains of  the SUV, a cut on her forehead bleeding profusely and holding her left arm close to her body, her right hand out as she repeated the incantation. “ _Pizid noco iad!_ ” She turned and yelled into the SUV, “Gordon! The oil!!”

Dean heard Bobby incredulously shout, “Jody?”

Dean moved to Cas’s side, muttering, “Cas? _Cas?!_ Come on!” Cas’s eyes were rolled up into his head and his teeth were clenched in a grimace. A low keening was coming from him, even as he curled more tightly into a fetal position. Panic ate at Dean’s gut as Cas didn’t, _couldn’t_ respond to him.

Then the Reaper was on him, and he had no time for anyone else. Dean had to jump up and back as the scythe came at him to chop off his head. The guy was really fast for being huge and in close quarters. The scythe whirled in an almost artistic pattern that Dean was only barely keeping ahead of, dodging his way into the library where there was more space. Concern warred with self-preservation, since Cas was still on the ground curled in on himself, obviously in debilitating pain. “ _Cas?!_ ”

He couldn’t take the not knowing. He pushed his awareness through the bond, and he could almost feel the fire that was eating through Cas’s nerves, heating every pain nodule he had and, even worse, suppressing his grace from healing or helping him. However, it was a bad idea to check on Cas, as the Reaper whirled the scythe and managed to catch him across the chest as he attempted to jump backwards from the attack, nearly hitting the desk and just thankful Bobby had cleared out the chairs and most of the detritus of their everyday life. Blood was a bitch to get out of books. Still, Dean hissed in pain, as the blade sliced open his shirt and skated across his chest, leaving a fairly deep wound across to bleed all over his shirt.

“Fuck,” he growled, using the barrel of the sawed off to hold off an overhead strike the Reaper was going for. “I liked this shirt too.”

This move, however, ended up another bad idea, as the Reaper was infinitely stronger than he was, had more leverage, and wasn’t partially trapped against a desk. Dean ended up on one knee, as the blow pushed him down with pure strength. The blade missed his back by maybe an inch, but struck the desk behind him with enough force to slice open the wood and embed the tip into the wooden floor between him and the desk.

The Reaper grinned down at Dean, obviously scented the air, and with a thick German accent said, “Grimm blood… finally. I will have your head.”

Dean grimaced as he tried to hold the Reaper off, not at all surprised when the Reaper yanked the blade out of the floor and leveraged it up, swiftly dragging the tip over Dean’s back and slicing him fairly deeply from hip to shoulder. He hissed again, feeling the gush of heat and blood, and pushed up with all his strength, catching the scythe where the blade met the handle. He knocked it to the left and kicked out, hitting the inside of the Reaper’s right knee as hard as he could, praying it would get him to back off.

The Reaper staggered, but held his position, throwing a heavy fist at Dean’s head with his left hand.

Desperate to avoid the ham-sized fist, Dean ducked and rolled to the rolled to his left, under it. He realized almost too late, as the scythe whizzed at him at shoulder height (The bastard swung the huge thing with just his right hand!), that it had been a trap. He fell to his back, ignoring the glass and debris, and rolled backwards as the scythe swirled around and stabbed down where he had previously landed. He grimaced at the heavy thunk it made as the blade embedded itself into the wooden floor again. His back throbbed angrily at him, and he shrugged slightly to alleviate the pain.

He paused in a crouch on the balls of his feet, pulling the shotgun to his waist and letting off a double-barreled shot that propelled him backwards. As he again rolled back, he tried to ignore the sharp litany of pain as his back protested the movements, and got back into a crouch, his back against the couch. The Reaper had tried to dodge the close-quarters shot, but Dean had managed to blow one through his side, and the Reaper had stepped back in surprised pain. Dean grinned as the Reaper patted his side with his right hand, feeling the gaping half-moon shaped wound where the blast had hit him. Blood gushed out of the wound, and part of the guy’s guts were visible. Seemingly unaffected, the Reaper grinned back at Dean, as he lifted his bloody palm to his mouth and licked it clean. “So much fun,” he said, getting back into an offensive stance, the edges of the scythe still glowing red with Dean’s blood.

“Psycho sonovabitch,” Dean muttered. His back and chest thrummed angrily from the open wounds and then rolling on them. There was probably glass and crap in there too. Standing, he threw the shotgun at the Hässlich, praying to distract him enough so he could get some space between them, and pulled out his A1, knowing it was useless. He quickly shot 9mm round after round into the Reaper’s chest, aiming for his heart, but the Hässlich just kept advancing on him, obviously feeling Dean was in a pinch.

And he was. He was running out of ammunition and not even the shotgun had made enough of a dent in the Hässlich’s massive physique. _At least I got around him._

He had. He pressed his luck and advanced backwards into the kitchen, looking quickly to the right to see Cas still in a pain-wracked ball, and now in a circle of flames. _No time for love, Doctor Jones!_

Reaper first, Cas second. It didn’t matter, since he couldn’t do anything for him that moment, but he was relieved when the Reaper just eyed the curled angel and kept moving towards Dean.

_They want Cas alive, but I’m optional. I can work with that._

The Reaper advanced and Dean grunted as his ass hit the kitchen table that had been jammed against the stove by the SUV’s strike. He reached behind him and found the hilt of something. He pulled it in front as he ran out of bullets, and he realized it was one of the [three-bladed knives](http://grimm.wikia.com/wiki/Three_Bladed_Knife). He pushed the mechanism, and the blades spread out. Desperate, he threw his A1 to the side to grab the other blade. The scythe came at him again, and he used the knife to deflect the blow as he stepped into it and away from the table, counting on the spread of the blades to help push the edge in the other direction using its momentum. He barely made it as he shifted to the left of the monster, the Reaper looking impressed that he had used the strike to actually escape. But Dean was sweating profusely and getting tired fast. Even worse, despite his heavier wound, the Reaper didn’t seem to have any issues moving and kept closing in fast.

_Shit shit shit shit!!_

He ducked another swipe of the scythe, cringing as the tip of the blade scraped the hood of the SUV with an eerie squeal, and struck out with the knife, stabbing the Hässlich behind the right kneecap with inhuman accuracy. The Hässlich howled in pain as Dean pulled downward, using all his weight and gravity as his friend, severing ligaments and muscle. The Reaper started to fall backwards as his knee gave out under his weight. As he fell, he tried to hold himself upright with his other leg, failing when Dean used his low position to slash out with both knives, viciously cutting through the tendons behind the knee, hamstringing it.

“You might be a big motherfucker, but even you bastards can’t take a shot to the knee!” Dean grinned, bloody from the glass cuts on his face. The Reaper slid to the floor, and, from his crouched position, palms now flat against the floorboards, Dean kicked upwards and out, his boot heel solidly striking under the Reaper's chin, and knocking him backwards with a surprised (if not pained) grunt. His head struck the side of the table with an echoing thump. Dean then rolled backwards again, his momentum and gravity pulling him back, and, when he was back in his crouch, he saw the Reaper was still recovering from his blow.

The scythe had fallen to his side, not so much forgotten as the Hässlich was in shock from being brought down to the floor, his mass a hindrance for fast recovery from being knocked down. Dean leaped up and hopped on top of the SUV’s hood, jumping off it with all his Grimm strength. He held the twin blades straight down as he landed on the Hässlich’s thick-skinned chest with his knees, and, already riddled with bullet holes, he heard a satisfying crack as the Reaper’s sternum cracked beneath him. “Sayonara, fucker,” he growled, as he stabbed down from each side of the broken sternum and into the Hässlich’s heart with all his Grimm strength. The Reaper gasped once and his hand swinging at Dean’s head before his body fell slack in death.

Dean panted hard, watching the Hässlich woging back into a large (dead) dark-eyed man, and he grunted as he stood. His chest and back were going to be a bitch later, but he needed to check Cas and he had no idea where Bobby and that woman had gone to.

_I was kinda busy. But… Cas…_

For Castiel, this was worse than his nightmares. When the SUV had driven into the house, Castiel had thought to push Dean out of the way of danger. He had thought to protect him from danger, as he should. He had also thought he could easily take care of the very large Wesen that had stepped out of the vehicle. Height and weight weren’t everything in a fight; although he was thinner and smaller, Castiel was made of pure power. He could stop the Wesen short. But then he was buried in a landslide of pure pain as the incantation the woman had chanted in Enochian burned through his vessel and sealed off his grace. This was the first time he had heard the incantation, and, although he knew it meant, “Torment the servant of God,” he didn’t know how to stop the pain that ate through his nerves.

It left him in a curled in a fetal position, his hands in claws as the joints locked up in his hands and feet. Even so, apparently the trench coat spells had come in handy and had held off part of the power, because he managed to push off the pain and tried to stand. But then the woman had recited the incantation again, and this time it was beyond agonizing. He was drowning in pure pain, as if every fiber of his being ripped into atoms and reassembled every other femotosecond. Unable to access his grace, the pain was harrowing and ate him from within. He wanted to open his mouth and cry out, but his jaw had locked around his words, and his joints were fused and refused to move when he wanted to stop her from using the holy oil to imprison him.

_I will not be imprisoned again! I will not! Not again! Dean!! Dean!!_

But if the spell rendered him helpless and without access to his grace, the oil circle she had imprisoned him in burned away his ability to reach out to Dean. Literally paralyzed with pain, he could do nothing.

After what felt like a millennia, he felt the flames around him break and he managed to pry one eye open.

Bright green eyes looked down at him with concern, his face pale and blood streaming from a multitude of small wounds. With a quivering voice, he softly but insistently said, “Cas? Cas? Come on, buddy! Talk to me!”

Trembling hands touched his face, and Castiel tried to speak, but his jaw wouldn’t unlock. Another tsunami of pain jolted through him as Dean swiped his hands over him, trying to find out where Castiel was hurt. He managed a whimper of pain that stopped the hands, and Dean stumbled over his words, “Cas! What can I do?”

Technically, Castiel knew there was nothing he could do. He tried to connect to Dean, but he was worried his pain would incapacitate his Basherter. He couldn’t do that to him. Basically trapped in his body again, again trapped in pain and unable to move, Castiel wondered bitterly if this was why they had tried to call him back to Heaven. He felt his past traumas rise to taunt him, the months of being unable to move, pinioned by spells. Nausea flourished in his currently too-human belly, and he suspected that, if his body had not been in total lockdown, he would have regurgitated all the pie Dean had fed him in a moment.

But when those grass-green eyes filled with tears for him, Castiel found the strength to believe that he would survive this. And then another wave of excruciating pain struck him, and he finally fell into blissful oblivion.

Dean was trying not to panic. He was in pain, but it seemed like it was nothing compared to Cas. He saw the angel finally pass out, and checked his breathing. He was alive, but still locked into a fetal position, his face a rictus of pain. Dean swallowed his fear and brushed his shaking fingertips over the angel’s face. The depth of his fear surprised him. He couldn’t lose his angel, not when they had just found each other. He released a sigh and suddenly heard a scream from outside. That’s when he realized he hadn’t even thought about Bobby. There was at least one more Verrat agent out there. His hands shook as he closed them into fists. He shut his eyes and listened, hearing commotion at the front of the house, out past the SUV. They must have moved to the front lawn.

He stood, hissing as the movement pulled viciously at his shoulders, especially where blood was drying and plastering his shirt to his wounds, and staggered out past the SUV and onto the front porch. Sure enough, Bobby was holding out against a fully woged Hundjäger. The Hundjäger was brandishing a saber and using his claws as his secondary weapon. Behind Bobby was what looked like a discarded handgun. The Hundjäger had probably thrown it at Bobby as a distraction. Unsuccessfully, it seemed, but it also looked like Bobby had not gotten off many shots with the shotgun and he was brandishing the [kanabo](http://grimm.wikia.com/wiki/Kanabo).

A bit closer to the porch, he saw a woman passed out on the ground not too far from the fight. He moved to check on her, keeping his eyes on the fight, and, when he knelt by her to check her vital signs, he found her breathing and with a pulse. She was sporting what looked like a nasty bruise to the side of her head, and Dean guessed she’d been beaned with something, probably the heel of the combat shotgun. It probably was not a good thing on top of the hit she had taken when they rammed the house, but at least that head wound had mostly stopped bleeding.

Like all Grimms, despite his age, Bobby was spry and strong. He lithely avoided the clawed strikes and the slashes with the saber. The Hundjäger looked especially angry, and he was foaming at the mouth as he snarled and snapped at Bobby, all while whirling his sword. He stabbed and slashed with the saber, his movements becoming wilder as his temper frayed. It was touch and go, but Bobby was holding his own. A dark patch and an occasional wince told Dean that Bobby had probably been hit at least once with a bullet in his right shoulder.

Dean looked over to where Bobby had lost the shotgun, and he moved towards it, his hand already in his pockets for the spare ammo he had kept, just in case he had had time to reload. But in that small time frame, Bobby barely dodged a sword slash to his throat and, in ducking, he put up his right arm in defense, the [kanabo](http://grimm.wikia.com/wiki/Kanabo) in his hand slower than his arm at the awkward angle. It was the small mistake the Hundjäger had been looking for and he managed to get his teeth around Bobby’s arm with a joyful snarl.

Dean cursed horribly as he watched Bobby flail for a moment, yelling his head off as the Hundjäger ravaged his arm, unable to push the Hundjäger off and his arm already in ribbons. The Hundjäger tried to get the sword in too, but Bobby was still aware enough that he kept the Hundjäger’s arm away and tried to jerk his arm out from the Hundjäger’s maw. Dean began to move towards him to help, his back making him slower than he should have been, when a flash of white whipped past him and rammed into the Hundjäger. The Hundjäger flew back with a surprised grunt, and the flash of white jumped on him and started hitting him in the head with their hooves.

Bobby screamed, “KAREN!!” And Dean whimpered, “No…”

Seelenguten were rarely courageous on their own. The fact Karen had come to save her mate was proof of how much she loved Bobby Singer. She should not have done it, as she had never been one for violence.

But they could do nothing as the sword flew up and stabbed Karen through the chest. She collapsed with a gasp, as the Hundjäger rolled out from under her, knocking her off of him as if she was a rag doll and pulling his sword out with a small kick to her side. He was obviously hurt by her attack: his right eye blackened and the eyebrow split; his lips puffed, cracked, and bleeding. Even more so, his face looked odd, the right side a bit off and starting to swell, and Dean felt a swell of pride that Karen had managed to break his cheekbone and inflict damage.

But Dean had reached the shotgun. It must have been knocked out of Bobby’s hands, because there were still a few rounds in it. He hefted the gun, anger and grief burning in his veins, and he screamed, “You sonuvabitch! What have you _done_? She was a kind and gentle Seelengut!”

He took a shot at the surprised Hundjäger, who snarled at him as the shot grazed his shoulder. Still wielding the sword, he took a step forward, eyes angry and jaws bloody.

“I will do my job,” he snarled. He turned back towards Bobby, who stood stunned at Karen’s collapse and seemed to have lost all thought. He lunged at the man, sword swooping down, when the other woman stepped between him and his prey, and screamed, “Gordon! NO!!”

But the Hundjäger was already half-way through his strike and couldn’t pull it back. He felt the jolt as the sword cleaved flesh, and his eyes grew wide at the sight of a woman’s hand falling to the earth.

The woman screamed and the scent of fresh blood — fresher blood — filled the air. To Dean, it looked like the Hundjäger (Gordon?) had snapped out of his rage. His eyes grew large as he looked at his compatriot, screaming in pain, while Bobby was already reaching out to staunch the blood. And when the Hundjäger saw that, something bone deep appeared to bubble into his expression: an exquisite hate. He swung the sword around again, but Dean had had enough.

“Get the fuck out of here, you asshole,” he snarled, lifting the shotgun again, and this time focusing on his target. The shot missed as the Hundjäger ducked to side, and started to run. He paused for a moment, turning his hate on Dean and snapped from between bloody lips, “This isn’t the end, _Winchester_.”

He growled and snapped in Dean’s direction and fled into the tree lines at an impressive speed. Bobby had an extremely grim expression on his face as he picked up the woman’s hand and he barked at Dean, “Tourniquet this and then go get a bucket of ice. We have to get her to the hospital!”

Dean immediately ripped the edge of his tshirt off, tying off her arm above the elbow. The woman’s brown eyes were filled with tears and she woged into a Steinadler for a brief moment, surprising him. He murmured reassurance, but her eyes were stuck on something beyond him. He turned to look at what had caught her attention above the pain, and swallowed hard.

Bobby was kneeling over Karen’s body, hugging her to his chest and sobbing. He turned away, unable to bear the sight, focusing on the job at hand. Yellow-green eyes slid blearily over to him and she said, “I’m sorry. We just wanted the angel…”

Dean gave her a narrow-eyed look and sharply asked, “Why? What do the Verrat want with the angel?”

The woman’s face paled even more, and then her eyes rolled back in her head and she fainted. Dean started cursing under his breath, checking her pulse and worried about how thin and faint it was. “Bobby! I think she’s going into shock!”

Bobby slowly, carefully put Karen back on the ground, unable to lift her with his arm mangled. His voice was ragged but still commanding when he snapped, “Dean, get the ice like I told you and then fetch the truck.”

Dean jumped up and ran into the house, grabbing an oversized bowl and getting as much ice out of the freezer as possible. He paused to check on Cas, but he was still out for the count. He refocused himself and silently promised him that he would be back.

Skirting around the SUV and jumping over the Reaper’s corpse, he darted through the library to the back door, and jumped into the truck with the bowl of ice. He then checked the sun visor and the truck keys tumbled into his lap. Thank god. Then again, the truck didn't look like it was worth stealing (although it ran like a charm).

He pulled it back until he could get it onto the front yard. Bobby was kneeling next to Karen again, his back hiding his face. The other woman was still laying unconscious on the ground behind him. Dean jumped out of the truck and picked her up, putting her in the truck. He ran back and picked up her severed hand and ~~maybe with a bit of an ew factor~~ carried it back to the truck and put it in the ice.

That done, he cautiously made his way over to Bobby. “Bobby… we…we need to go to the hospital. She needs a surgeon.”

Dean had never seen Bobby’s shell-shocked expression. Other than his mother, he had not lost anyone very close to him, and he had had fourteen years to come to _poor_ grips with his loss. The raw pain in Bobby’s face shocked him to his core. He licked his lips nervously. “Bobby, I can take her, but you’re shot and your arm is mangled too. Also, Cas is still laid out in the kitchen. I don’t know how he’ll react to my not being there…”

“Just dump her at the hospital. The Verrat’ll take care of it,” Bobby muttered, not looking up.

The hospital was a 20-minute drive. That was forty minutes there and back. “God damn it, Bobby,” he snarled, grabbing the man’s good shoulder. He didn't see the hand that gripped him and unceremoniously threw over Bobby's shoulder and slammed him on the ground. He yelped as his back hit grass and earth, the movement tearing open his wound. He was trying to get his breath back when he heard Bobby roar, “Damn it, boy! Do as I say!”

And when he finally managed to pull himself up off the ground, he found Bobby trying to carry Karen’s body inside, staggering badly, as his arms protested his carrying the weight, and a low-sobbing keen coming from the man.

Dean again felt tears prickle his eyes, and convinced himself it was just the pain from his wounds.  _I can't do that now._

He got back into the truck and drove to the hospital.

_Damn the Verrat, any way._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) The guns are all SPN. The weird stuff is all from GRIMM.  
> 2) Karen: sorry. But she was a bad ass to the end!  
> 3) Pizid noco iad! (Torment the Servant of God): This is what the Whore of Babylon says in 99 Problems when Cas just drops in pain.


	17. Eyes of the Beholder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pure Faction action. Gordon escapes. Meg goes to a reception. Crowley makes plans. 
> 
> Title taken from GRIMM S3 E10.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to apologize NOW for how friggin' short this chapter is in comparison to every other chapter, barring the first couple. I've been hella busy writing, and I apologize for not having Dean/Cas in this chapter. I will make it up to you all, I swear. 
> 
> TW: I don't think there are any, although there is some derogatory language about Meg's vessel and a bit of negativity from Crowley. If I miss anything that's triggering, PLEASE tell me. I will add the warning.
> 
> So, for now, here is some faction action, with more to come as soon as I finish this other project that's currently driving me mad. 
> 
> In other news, if you want some modern day AU fluffy as hell Destiel, please read my other VERY short fics.

> _Out on the streets, that's where we'll meet_  
>  _You make the night, I always cross the line_  
>  _Tightened our belts, abuse ourselves_  
>  _Get in our way, we'll put you on your shelf_  
>  _Another day, some other way_  
>  _We're gonna go, but then we'll see you again_  
>  _I've had enough, we've had enough_  
>  _Cold in vain, she said_  
>   
>  _I knew right from the beginning_  
>  _That you would end up winnin'_  
>  _I knew right from the start_  
>  _You'd put an arrow through my heart  
> _                    ~Ratt, [Round and Round](http://youtu.be/0u8teXR8VE4)

**SIOUX FALLS, SOUTH DAKOTA — WOODS**

Gordon was pissed. The Seelengut had messed him up worse than the two Grimms combined, catching him off guard and pummeling him with her hooves. His face hurt, his neck hurt, and he was pretty certain his left cheekbone was smashed and he needed medical attention.

But there was no time for the pain. The young Grimm was alive, which probably meant that the fucking Reaper dick was dead. He was useless from the get go anyway. He knew that a creature so bent on killing the Grimm, more than capturing the angel, was going to be dead weight. But at least he was a diversion. Trying to kill the older Grimm had proven much more difficult than he had thought. Hundjäger were not that hard to kill compared to some Wesen, as they weren’t that much stronger than an average human, and nearly no match in physical strength for a Grimm. That wasn’t what made them as a species dangerous. Tenacity and the ability to follow orders were the reasons Hundjägers were dangerous.

He would remember that Dean Winchester fucked him over. Dean Winchester had saved the angel. Dean Winchester would eventually _pay_.

But first things first.

He kept moving, grateful that Singer was a paranoid old coot and that there were more trees out this direction than houses. He slid against a tree, gasping, as everything hurt.

Grunting in pain, he dug into his pants’ pocket and pulled out a cellphone. He pressed two and waited. A woman with a British accent answered.

“Did you collect the angel?”

“No. I’m certain the Reaper is dead and Mills was captured.” His voice sounded muffled, even to himself, and he was having problems focusing on the conversation. He realized the adrenaline that had gotten him so far was fading and that his left side hurt. He pulled at his dress shirt, noting it was plastered to him with blood, and found a heavy spray of buckshot had peppered his chest. His wounds were bleeding more than they should have been with such a large spread. One or two of them must have hit something vital. He hissed into the phone. “I need pick up. I’m torn up.”

“The target. Where is it?”

“I don’t know. It was in a circle of Holy Fire last I saw it, but it could have been saved by now. The young Grimm survived the Reaper. I don’t know how. Now, I need help!”

There was a long pause, and the British bitch asked coolly, “How torn up?”

_Bitch, not so much I won’t rip your filthy head off…_

“Enough that I’m about to pass out from blood loss. Get someone here, pronto.”

He knew the GPS in his burner was on; the Verrat would never allow him to just run off. Knowing someone would eventually rescue him, he fell back onto the woodland floor, his hand trying to staunch the worst of the bleeders. Before he passed out, he hoped they would find him and not find out about Mills.

 

 

**LAS VEGAS, NEVADA — THE VENETIAN**

Meg stood at the edge of the wedding reception and eyed everyone narrowly. They were having way too much fun for something that was undoubtedly doomed to be short lived. Marriage was for saps and masochists. At least the latter turned her on: watching people crucify themselves for pleasure made her meat suit all dewy and soft in the center. It was what Hell was made of, after all.

She recognized the demonic energy coming from a cheerful looking young man in a purple designer suit, fluffing flowers and wearing a headset. She watched him direct people to do their jobs, such as making sure trash was collected and the bride and groom’s arrival via gondola was going to be as fantastic as advertised.

When he finished his fluffing, he turned towards Meg and flicked red eyes at her. She flicked back black eyes and said, “I’m guessing you’re Guy. Guy, my name is Meg. I’m looking to make a deal.”

Guy looked taken aback for a moment and then he frowned. “Meg? As in Azazel’s daughter?”

She didn’t respond and he eyed her. “What are you slumming for?”

She smiled and looked at the happy humans, living out their pitiful lives, and handing out a fortune in cash to make it memorable. “All this fake joy, hedonism, and bacchanalia makes it worth it. Makes a woman hungry and horny, you know.”

Narrowed dark brown eyes made her smile crookedly. “Fine, don’t take a joke. Typical crossroads demon, sheesh.” She stepped in closer to him, nearly his height in her platform heels. She grasped his lapel between two fingers and ran them down the satin edging. “I need an inside man. Someone who can work around Crowley,” she murmured seductively, moving her hand under his jacket and putting her hand against his silk-clad chest.

She watched him cringe as if she had invoked the devil himself, his meat-suit’s heart beating like a rabbit’s. He hissed, “Not so loud! You might conjure him!”

She threw back her head and laughed at that. “I doubt my dulcet tones could summon the asshole from Hell.” She leaned in flirtatiously, crossing her arms under her breasts and pushing up. “Now, are you my man or what?”

Dark eyes looked down at her meat-sack’s tits, and then snapped up. “Depends. I mostly work deals like this bash. Bride traded her soul for her ‘fairytale wedding.’ Makes life easy for a crossroads demon like me since there’s very little skulking or negotiation. I just sit in a happy, brightly lit office and they fall into my lap like fat pigs from Heaven.”

“I bet.” She looked over to where the bride and groom were arriving from the cheers near the bridge. The bride was no beauty, but she was seriously working that Oscar de la Renta like a hooker worked a corner on a Saturday night. “Look, I need to find a weapon on the sly. I have it on good authority there is one on earth.”

“Weapon?” Guy frowned at her and shook his head. “I don’t really…”

“Guy, Guy, Guy,” she murmured, stepping into his personal space again and trailing her fingernails over his chest and up to his ear. She snagged his earlobe viciously and he hissed in pain. “I will make your life Hell, and then I will report it to Crowley that you’ve been claiming souls early on the sly.”

Red eyes flickered back into existence as he stuttered, “H-how do you know that?”

A harsh smile slid across her blood-red lips, and she pulled his abused ear down to her mouth and whispered, “I have my ways, my little frog in a gaudy well. I hear you also have yours. Now… do I have your cooperation?” She tugged hard at his ear and he winced. “Do I?”

He nodded and she pressed a kiss to his jaw. “Good.”

She released him, smiling like a tiger who had found a fountain of cream, and she purred, “I have it on _very good authority_ that there is a Heavenly weapon on earth. Find it for me.” Her eyes flickered to black and she chuckled, “If you betray me, I promise you… any punishment you might fear from Crowley will be chicken feed compared to what I’ll do to you.”

He nodded and she patted his chest companionably. “See, I knew we’d understand each other. Now go do your job and contact me when you find the weapon. Remember, it has to be under the radar.”

She walked away, her hips swaying in the dress, ignoring the admiring eyes that followed her slim form.

_I’ll contact Red and get him to keep an eye on this loser. And I’ll keep looking myself. Can’t trust anyone._

 

 

**CALIFORNIA — L.A.**

Crowley sat at his desk, looking over reports. The soul trade was brisk this close to Christmas, when high school reunions, Christmas parties, and family reunions loomed over people. Middle-age angst was practically made for soul selling. He hardly had to advertise; forty-year olds practically broke down his door to look good in front of family and friends.

But there were other problems looming on the horizon.  

He was aware that Meg was on the prowl, and word had gotten back to him that she was looking for a crossroads demon that would dare double cross him. The problem was, there shouldn’t have been any. He kept a fine eye on everyone in the business.

He picked up his cell phone and eyed it skeptically, wondering if he wouldn’t get better reception by draining his secretary for blood. He checked the clock; it was only 1030AM. Too early to kill his secretary. He hadn’t even had his elevenses. But he dialed and waited, rolling his eyes at the ringback tone that assaulted his ear: One Direction - What Makes You Beautiful.

“FeLottie’s Event Planners, this is Guy speaking!”

Crowley let out a small sigh. “Every time I hear you say that, I just want to rip off your nub, ye berk. Now, tell me. Did the stroppy bint take the bait or not?”

There was a distinct pause on the other end and then a cough. “Yessir. She came to see me as you expected.”

Crowley chuckled, pleased. “Wonderful. I knew your sketchy history would draw her attention. So she has no idea, eh? That I’m in the know?”

“No sir. I didn’t give it away.”

“Good, as I have no reservations about giving you a short rehabilitation with Lilith. She does love tearing men down to strips.”

There’s no response on the other side of the line, but Crowley knew Lilith’s reputation more than preceded her. It sent out a marching band and full carnival of bad news. “So, what’s she looking for?”

Another pause. “She said a weapon of Heaven, sir.”

“A weapon of Heaven?” Did such a thing even exist on earth? “Did she say what sort?”

“No sir. Just that she had it on very good authority that it existed here. I don’t think she had much more information than that.”

“I see.” He stroked his chin contemplatively and appeared to nod agreement to himself. “You keep an eye out for that piece, ye hear? But you give me first wind or I’ll lock you in that meat bag and permanently separate you from your knackers. I’ll keep those wee berries in a jar on my desk and use them like a Magic 8 Ball. Got it?”

In a trembling voice, Guy replied, “Got it.”

Crowley hung up, and, tucking the phone into his fist, he thought about his options. He pressed the button on his desk and his secretary popped her head in.

Cecily tended to drive him mad on his best days. She was maddeningly efficient, she was smart (possibly smarter than him), and exceedingly clever. Even now, her dark hair pulled into a headache-inducing tight chignon, and the efficient deep blue cotton blouse tucked into a tan suit skirt (that stopped exactly one inch above her knee) irked him fiercely, right down to her proper deep-blue pumps (one-inch heel, no more, no less). He was certain it was why she dressed like that; she knew that level of bland perfection drove him insane. “Yes, sir?”

“Cecily, get me some of my best demons. The ones on my favored list. I’m going to need this done on the down-low, and I don’t trust Guy to keep his trap shut. Also, get me Roy and Walt.”

She gave him doubtful blue eyes over her narrow black eyeglass frames (even her cosmetics were just bland dark brown liner, mascara, and a shade-darker-than-natural-plum lipstick) and he snapped, “Cecily, I’m about to make another phone call, and I’m this close to volunteering your neck for the costs. Get out and get me these people!”

The knowingly look she gave him (again, over her frames!) was near enough to send him over his desk, but she said, “Of course, sir” in such a mild tone, he knew she would get it done. If she hadn’t been the most fucking efficient secretary he had ever had, he would have either killed and fucked her, or sent her into another position where her skills would be useful.  Maybe the NSA could use her. He needed an inside demon there…

As he pondered the possibilities, he pulled out a glass and served himself a hefty serving of Craig. “I love elevenses,” he murmured as he took a sip, sat back, and started to look through more reports. He had time until everyone would gather.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FeLotties => Philotes: the spirit (daimona) of friendship and affection, AKA the daimona of sexual intercourse (the other meaning of philotês in Greek). (thank you Internet)


	18. Happily Ever Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean returns, Cas learns a new emotion, Bobby has a very hard time of it, and windows break, causing awkwardness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, I got swamped at the end of last year til the beginning of this year, so I didn't get around to this QUITE as much as I wanted to. AND OH HOW I WANTED TO. So I am sorry, and I will attempt to not let this slide as much as it did. 
> 
> Technically this is the second half of the last chapter... but *shhh* that's a secret between us, right? ;) 
> 
> No, but that's partially why it's short. Not as friggin' short as last time, but short. Next one will be full length. Ah, and as always, un-beta'd. All boo boos on me. 
> 
> Please comment or give kudos so I feel better about my life and this story.
> 
> Title is from S1 E20 of GRIMM.

> _Now this mountain I must climb_   
>  _Feels like a world upon my shoulders_   
>  _I through the clouds I see love shine_   
>  _It keeps me warm as life grows colder_
> 
> _In my life there's been heartache and pain_   
>  _I don't know if I can face it again_   
>  _Can't stop now, I've traveled so far_   
>  _To change this lonely life_
> 
> _I wanna know what love is_   
>  _I want you to show me_   
>  _I wanna feel what love is_   
>  _I know you can show me_
> 
> _I'm gonna take a little time_   
>  _A little time to look around me_   
>  _I've got nowhere left to hide_   
>  _It looks like love has finally found me_   
>  _~Foreigner,[I Want to Know What Love Is](http://youtu.be/raNGeq3_DtM) _

It took him nearly an hour and a half to get back.

As it turned out, going to the hospital covered in blood and wounds, while carrying a woman missing a hand, got you unwanted attention. A lot of it.

He had managed to get the woman (Jody?) into the E.R., but the nurses immediately wanted him to stick around “for questioning” and, he presumed, treatment, given the looks they gave his slashed shirt. They had posted the security guard with him, as they wheeled the more severe case away, and it had been a bitch to escape before the cops had arrived. That had involved some charm, a vending machine, and blow to the back of the guard’s head. At least the poor guy was already at the hospital, but there was no way Dean was going to be able to stop by Sioux Falls for awhile: they were going to want to ask questions about stuff he didn’t want to answer.

His escape in the truck was almost miraculous. Although he had pulled on one of Bobby’s caps and one of his work jackets he had left in the car, he was afraid he was going to get stopped, but he couldn’t just ditch the truck. It was Bobby’s and Bobby was in no place to come fetch it if he just left it in a parking lot somewhere.

When he finally arrived back at Bobby’s he was initially shocked by the damage to the house. He had seen it before, but there were other things on his mind at the time. Looking at it now, it literally looked like a war zone.

There were tire tracks in the manicured front lawn, and the front porch was half torn down from the damage. The porch swing was demolished. The SUV was still tucked inside of the house, like a kid’s toy shoved through a pile of Legos. There were visible blood stains, shining blackly, on the green grass. And, from far away, the smell of burnt metal wafted to him, most likely from the ruined car. He wondered if the wards Bobby had reinforced had also shielded them from questioning eyes, but there was no way all that gun play would not have had the black and whites show up in force to see what was up.

If they had, they would have been in for a nasty surprise, as the place looked like a small gang war had erupted.

_Not too far off from the truth._

Dean restrained his snort of mirth and parked the truck in the back. He cautiously walked into the house through the backdoor and found it eerily quiet. He called out, “Hello?”

No answer.

Worried, he pulled the .357 out of his ankle holster and moved carefully into the library. He had to move carefully; his damn shirt was glued to his wounds again.

But in actuality, Bobby was just sitting in one of the unbroken kitchen chairs, staring at the couch.

Or, more accurately, Bobby was just sitting in one of the kitchen chairs, staring at Karen’s body on the couch, a towel wrapped around his chewed arm, and another jury-rigged around his shoulder.

Dean paused in his approach and stared for a moment before lowering his gun. He whispered, “Bobby?”

Bobby didn’t reply, so he moved closer to the man. He looked over at Karen, her flesh was pale, her lips and cheeks faded, and her blood had seeped into the couch cushions, leaving a puddle beneath it to soak into the wood floor. Dean tried not to grimace, and slowly reached out a hand to touch Bobby’s shoulder.

Before he could touch him, though, Bobby snapped, “I’m fine, boy. Go check on that angel of yours. He ain’t moved.”

Dean halted because Bobby hadn’t turn to look at him. He nodded understanding at Bobby’s back and moved past him to where he last saw Cas.

Cas was still on the floor, the linoleum burned where the oil had encircled him. Dean put down his gun in a panic, and leaned over the still unconscious angel. “Cas? Cas, c’mon, buddy! Wake up! You’re scaring me!”

No response, but at least his body wasn’t locked into position. He pulled the angel into his lap and touched his cheek. “C’mon, Cas! C’mon c’mon _c’mon_ … you gotta wake up!”

Finally, _finally_ the angel let out a low moan, and curled more into Dean’s warmth. Dean’s breath hitched as he heard a low “Dean,” from Cas’s lips, and he wondered what angels dreamed about.

“Cas, buddy, we need to get you upstairs, okay? Bobby needs me, I’m covered in blood, and god knows when the cops’ll show up.” He bit his bottom lip and shook his head once, trying to pull it together. “It’s okay, I’ve got you,” he murmured tightly, managing to get Cas’s arms around his neck and pull him up just enough to get his arm under his knees. “Holy shit, Cas… you weigh a ton,” he gritted between clenched teeth.

The stairs took forever to navigate, but he somehow managed to get Cas into bed, although not without whacking him in the head a couple of times. Now that the angel was situated, he could worry about himself. The blood loss was starting to get to him, as his vision was getting dim. He wandered into the bathroom and eyed himself in the mirror. No wonder the nurses had tried to keep him. His shirt was a gory, shredded mess that was black with dirt and caked-on blood. His face looked like he had gone ten losing rounds with Mike Tyson, what with the scratches and the bits of embedded glass. His forearms were covered in abrasions and fine-line cuts from where he had barely missed being sliced open by the scythe. And this was just from the front.

His sigh turned into a hiss of pain as he carefully stripped off the gory shirt, the cloth having dried into his wounds and having (again) ripped open with his lifting and moving Cas. _Worth it._

He rinsed off the wound with a damp towel that had, at least, mostly stopped the bleeding, although the gash needed stitches. He was going to have to get Bobby to help with that. He couldn’t reach his back. The bits of glass he could see, he pulled out carefully with some tweezers and sighed when he realized that, overall, this was a two-man job. Too many of his wounds were out of his reach. It made him cranky.

He settled on rinsing off what he could, leaving the water pressure low so it wouldn’t do any damage. He then basically covered everything in gauze and, with just his pants on, went to visit Cas.

Cas was still asleep. He had curled in on himself again, facing the wall, and a frown was still peaking his forehead. The sun was starting to set through the windows, as Dean sat down on the edge of the bed, and tried to smooth the wrinkles out, singing softly under his breath, and carding back the soft dark hair over his ears with his fingers like he would with Sammy when he was sick. Cas turned towards him, his hands searching out and finding Dean’s thigh, wrapping deceptively thin fingers over his knee. A small breath released between his lips, “Dean…”

_Fucking adorable._

Dean was going to die from cute. He carded through Cas’s hair a moment more, when Cas suddenly moaned, shaking his head. Dean suddenly had a bad feeling, because the last time Cas had a nightmare, he had gotten wing punched, and that shit hurt. He shook the angel’s shoulder, and, when Cas didn’t respond, shook harder. “Cas… you’re having a nightmare… wake up.”

Cas must have just barely moved into the nightmare, because his eyes opened slowly, their cerulean blue clouded with fear. “Dean,” he rasped shallowly, trying to maintain consciousness.

“Yeah, kid. I’m here.” Dean smiled fondly, raking back the damp fringe of hair on Cas’s forehead with his fingers.

Cas blinked a few times, and then squinted. “Dean, are...are you injured?”

Dean smiled down at Cas’s upset expression. “What did I tell you? I’m used to it.”

Looking like it cost him effort, Cas raised his hand and touched Dean’s face, his expression sad. “I couldn’t save you,” he murmured mournfully. Cold fingers traced his cheek as Dean replied firmly, but in a gentle voice, “I can save myself, Cas. I told you that.”

Blue eyes lightened with a smile, and Cas answered, “You did…” But his face remained concerned and sad, and his fingers lightly brushed over the scabbing cuts on his face as if memorizing them.

Dean sighed, and tucked the angel’s hand in his, cupping his own face in it. “I’m very tired, Cas. Bobby is downstairs with Karen and I…”

He had tried to contain it, the sorrow that swallowed him, the loss of Karen weighing heavily on him, as he knew she and Bobby would never have been involved except that he had brought Cas to them. The tears felt like they were scalding him as they ran over his cheeks, over the nicks and cuts, over the overlapped hands he slipped more of his face into, weeping over the surrogate mother he had lost. For the poor Seelengut soul he had failed to save...

And then suddenly, the weight of his eighteen years hit him and he couldn’t stop. He cried over his fears for Sammy, and the betrayal of his dad...perhaps he cried over the last fourteen years on the road, but he didn’t know anymore. The sobs just broke out of him, heaving and horrible. His exhausted body was the final straw, and, as many times as he had put off letting it go, in front of his angel he felt _safe_.

The still-cool hands that trembled as they pulled him close, the feel of soft, fragrant wings that wrapped around him, and the faint kisses that peppered his face and hair were like a balm on his heart. In his head, there was a quiet, insistent whisper of, “ _I’ve got you, beloved, my basherter. I’ve got you…_ ”

Exhaustion caught up to him, finally, and he fell asleep in the arms of his angel. 

* * *

Castiel fought the lingering exhaustion that threatened to put him back under, but at least his grace was accessible, and, even if it was in trickles, it was returning much, much faster than it had when they had escaped from the carnival.

When he had awoken, he had been surprised to see Dean hovering above him. He had been internally terrified that the Verrat had gotten their way and stolen him away. But then, when he had been able to focus, he had seen that Dean’s face was covered in small cuts and that he wasn’t wearing a shirt because of the large bandages on his chest. It had hitched his breath, and he wanted to cry at how useless he had been yet again.

But then _Dean_ had broken down, and, although they had not been together long, Castiel knew that Dean did not show his fears and sorrow. He had hidden them from Bobby and Karen, and he even tried to shield Castiel from them. Regardless, they had occasionally slipped through his defenses and made it to Castiel. Dean, after all, was still a young man, and barely a man at that. Castiel had brought him a lot of hardship, even if he never wanted to talk about it.

So, as Dean lay in his arms, his tears wetting his shoulder and chest, Castiel slowly eased him into sleep, using a small trickle of grace at a time to slowly mend the wounds his basherter had endured. He had dropped kisses and poured his adoration into their bond, hoping Dean was able to feel his love. Of course the bond had already weakened a bit, so it was hard to tell.

When Dean had fallen into a fitful sleep that Castiel soothed into a deep rest, random details started to bother Castiel. The Verrat were probably out of options for now. They were going to have to leave before they dropped demons on Bobby’s head. And, from what he could gather, Karen was dead somehow.

Guilt suddenly ate at Castiel, and, as soon as he was sure that Dean was healed, deeply asleep, and would stay like that, he made his way down to the library.

Bobby was sitting in a kitchen chair next to the couch. There was a thick towel around his arm, another clumsily tied around his shoulder. The air was dense with the smell of iron and decay. Karen’s body was laid out on top and her blood had seeped everywhere, now a heavy, drying puddle on the scratched wood floor. Castiel heaved a sigh, guilt singing through him. He approached Bobby, but didn’t try to touch him, and said, “Bobby… I’m sorry.”

A low, rough laugh rumbled out of Bobby, bitter and grief stricken. “Sorry? Angel, sorry don’t cut it! Look at her… married near twenty years and…” He choked on the words and swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. He took a deep, fortifying breath and asked, “Can you bring her back?”

Castiel swallowed hard and closed his eyes. He didn’t want to see the older man’s reaction. “Sorry. I am not grown enough.”

“What the fuck does that even mean?” Bobby snarled, whirling on Castiel from his seat. Castiel slowly opened his eyes and found a blue-gray furious gaze focused on him. “You healed that damn burn. You can bring down lightning! You can fly places in an instant, but you can’t bring my Karen back?”

Castiel shook his head sadly. “Sorry,” he repeated, his voice soft and defeated. “This is all I can do.”

He reached out and pressed two fingers to Bobby’s shoulder. Bobby blinked for a moment, startled, and then yanked the blood encrusted towel off his arm. The skin was whole and healed, without a sign it had been a Hundjäger's chew toy. He reached up and yanked off the other towel, hissing as both his shirt and the towel came off at the same time like duct tape. He rotated his shoulder and touched the skin: healed. Castiel couldn’t see his face, but, since Bobby wasn’t saying anything, he just shifted from foot to foot nervously, wondering if he had made a mistake.

Finally, Bobby looked up at him fiercely for a moment, and said tersely, “So that’s it? Just this and that you’re an angel and you’re sorry?” He turned his back on him and stared down at his wife’s body, rubbing at his eyes again with the back of his hand. “Well, you can ‘sorry’ yer ass back up to Dean.” Castiel remained behind him, unsure what to do, and Bobby snapped, “Go’on! **GIT!** ”

Odd feelings settled in Castiel, things he had never felt before, and he absently rubbed at his chest as he made his way back upstairs to Dean. He settled in next to his Grimm, wrapping his arms and wings around the sleeping man, and closed his eyes as he examined these new feelings. It was a dull pain under his breastbone and a twisted feeling in his abdomen. It was similar to the feeling of fear that had eaten at him for months in the cage, but different, more painful.

He wondered if this was what humans called ‘regret.’ He sighed and resolved to ask Dean when he woke up. But determined as he was, it didn’t rid him of the dull ache. He pulled Dean in closer and nuzzled his hair, not sure how to balance the joy of Dean wrapping his arms around him in his sleep gave him. Castiel passed his hands over Dean’s back and the wound was healed, the stench of blood wafting from the cloth and no longer from his skin. He reasoned he could expend that touch of grace to clean the bandages, and, in doing so, left Dean smelling like just soap and bandages.

 _Just that small touch of grace_ , Castiel thought randomly, _and I can clean and heal Dean. But… I can’t help poor Karen…_

That dark and painful feeling surged up again, and he started to tremble, yet he didn’t know why. Desperate and now frightened, he burrowed into Dean’s warmth as much as he could, but the trembling didn’t stop.

Dean seemed to wake a bit with Castiel’s trembling. He sighed in his sleep, and murmured into Castiel’s shoulder, “You’re okay, Cas. I got ya. I got ya.”

At a loss, Castiel enfolded them in his wings, closed his eyes, and listened to Dean gently snore. 

* * *

When Dean awoke, it felt like it had been days, purely because he wasn’t hurting, and he didn’t feel exhausted. For once, he felt well rested and whole. It was a bizarre feeling that made him wonder what he had been doing the rest of his life that he had never felt so refreshed. He did a mental checklist and came to the conclusion that Cas had healed him. He must have his grace back.

He also realized after a moment that he was still enveloped in feathers and it was actually really hot under the feathers, which partially explained why he was clasped to Cas. Cas’s skin felt so cool, it was lovely. He sighed happily into Cas’s chest, and Cas asked, “Awake?”

Dean tried to say, “Kind of,” but it sort of came out a mumbled and smashed, “Kin’ve.” He felt Cas laugh against his cheek and smiled, dropping a small series of kisses against Cas’s chest. He felt Cas’s breath hitch, and Dean chuckled that moving his hand up his back made Cas hiss, “Dean!”

Dean chuckled again and tilted his head up so he could look into brilliant, cerulean-blue eyes. Cas said in a rasp, “Bond.”

And Dean realized he couldn’t feel Cas like he had before in the back of his mind. He also realized he wasn’t actually worried or scared about having Cas in his head. That seemed odd, but having Cas there actually felt like always holding his hand and having him nearby. It was comforting and made him feel secure. Dean smiled, looking up at the angel, the moonlight spilling through the windows to highlight them both, and whispered, “If you get rid of this hideous morning breath I’m sporting, I’ll renew the bond.”

Cas scoffed, but brushed his fingers over Dean jaw, and Dean had to stop himself from crassly smacking his lips because he was suddenly minty fresh. Cas drew in his wings, to Dean’s disappointment, and wiggled so he was face-to-face with Dean, the blue eyes darkened with desire. Dean smirked, knowing he had caused the angel to have that expression, and he slipped his hands under and around Cas’s jaw to hold him still. The first kiss was just a soft press of lips, and then green eyes sought out blue for permission for more. Cas smiled faintly and closed the distance between them. Again, the instant and broiling heat between them flared, and what had begun as a soft and gentle kiss quickly disintegrated into heated desperation, a sense that they had to prove to each other that they were alive, and reaffirm it with their bodies. 

Grace arced between them, charging the air and heating their bodies. It tickled like tiny cat paws over Dean’s skin, and it was like a drug, the feel of his angel inside and out. Dean wanted more. “Cas,” he gasped between kisses, “Can you mojo our clothes off?”

He didn’t even have time to blink before there was nothing between them. He paused to look down at Cas’s body: the still thin, but not weak body; the dusky nipples against the firm pale flesh; the hip bones that jutted out and begged to have fingertip-sized bruises and hickeys marking them; the fine dark trail of hair that led down to his dick; and that same dick that was incredibly hard and leaking precum just for him. Dean smirked again: yes, he’s the one who got an angel in this state. He quickly kissed Cas and dipped lower to again leave a trail of love bites down his neck and chest. Cas gasped at each one, his fingers leaving more long lasting bruises on Dean’s back, his legs wrapping around as he tried to pull him closer.

When Dean’s tongue finally brushed over the hard nub of Cas’s nipple, Cas gasped and arched into him, causing Dean to grin. “Sweet spot, sweetheart?”

“Shut up. Do it again!” Cas growled at him. Happy to oblige, Dean again laved the nub with the tip of his tongue, using his finger to tweak and play with the other. Cas groaned heavily and, after a few moments of this, gasped, “I can’t!”

He tugged at Dean’s shoulders to pull him up and Dean again obliged him, meeting his lips in a crash of desire that surprised him on some level. The heat and electricity of grace wrapped around them, making each touch beyond sensual, as each sensation sank past the boundary of skin and was almost like touching the electric being that was soul. He heard Cas in his head, the echoing: 

_Dean!Dean!Dean!Sobeautiful!Mybasherter!Iwant!Iwant!AH!Mybondmate!Want!_

He swore darkly under his breath, and asked, “Cas? Can I..?”

The usual bright blue eyes were somehow even darker with desire that Cas looked like he was barely containing. “I give you everything, Dean. I will always give it all to you…”

Permission given, Dean pulled him back into a kiss, this time softer, a gentle nibbling of lips and assurance that this was what Cas wanted. The kisses elongated, and soon everything lost meaning except that he could chase down the taste of rain on a summer night, the smell of snow in the mountains, and the hint of ripe apples bursting on his tongue. Every time they kissed, Cas tasted beautiful, and Dean felt like he was being loved by Nature herself, like he was (indeed) being loved by an angel.

He was also internally grateful he had watched a lot of gay porn, originally to...soften showing his interest in men in front of Sam and John. If he could numb it by watching men have sex, he had thought, then maybe it wouldn’t be as obvious when he actually did show interest. He had thought he could stifle the urge with saturation.

But now... he carefully tried to prepare Cas, but, as he knew, Cas was more temperamental than he let on and generally less patient. “ _Dean, I need you **now**. If you don’t do something **right now** , I’m going to do... **something**._ ” He had apparently had had enough of writhing on the bed sheets and moaning while Dean inserted spit-covered fingers and sucked hickeys into his thighs.

Dean chuckled and said, “If I don’t prep you, it’s going to hurt later. I mean, you’re a virgin and...”

Bright-blue eyes burned impatiently at him and he said sharply, “I’m an angel. It’s fine.”

_So apparently having an angel as a boyfriend had perks… wait...did I just think boyfriend?_

“ **DEAN!** ”

“So impatient… jeez.” He lined up his dick and pushed in slowly, wishing he had lube to make it all better. But, Cas looked fine and Dean had no problems pushing in. _Maybe he’s using some sort of angel lubey mojo thing?_

Cas gasped as Dean moved, his body arching slightly with the feeling of penetration, and then, when Dean was fully seated, he waited to make sure Cas was comfortable. He would have done it for a virgin girl, why wouldn’t he do it for Cas? As they lay there, finally and fully connected, they kissed, the grace still trilling through them. It sung through their veins as, when Cas’s hips started to push against Dean, they started to move into each other. Dean tried to swallow each of Cas’s gasps as he pushed into him, the heat and tightness beyond anything he had experienced before. He groaned at how perfect Cas felt under him, and he knew he had hit Cas’s prostate when he gasped and then moaned deep in his throat.

_This is for Cas… I can do this…_

He had been trying to ignore Cas’s voice in his head that kept whispering and whimpering, although the jolt of surprise and pleasure when he had hit Cas’s button was literally like a buzzer in his head the first time.

But, after awhile, Dean realized that paying attention to that voice was extremely helpful. It helped him gauge what was working and what wasn’t. When he nipped at Cas’s nipples, that gave very pleasant feedback. When it did nothing, like, say, nibbling at his earlobes, Dean filed it away as a “do not bother.” The best feedback, though, was from kissing (which Cas apparently loved) and hitting that pleasure center like a bullseye, because the buzz fed through and circled through him too. It was like getting the best of both worlds, and, once he realized it, he wasn’t sure he was going to be able to hold on as long as he thought he could.

Not that he was moving very fast, but he tried to slow down and tried to think of something “not sexy.” Cas, however, was having none of that: he pulled him down to kiss him and whispered harshly against his lips, “ **MOVE...** ”

“Pushy bottom,” Dean smirked, and then licked at Cas’s lips with the tip of his tongue. He conceded to Cas, pulling Cas’s legs over his shoulders, and moved faster until there was a prolonged buzz in the back of his head, and Cas was gasping and sobbing beneath him. He could feel it, the hill that was Cas’s orgasm, and how he needed to push them both over the edge.

And then, Cas responded to one of Dean’s fantasies, releasing his wings onto the bed. The black feathers curled slightly in, as if wanting to hold them both, but there was Cas in the center, a debauched angel. It was a feast for Dean’s eyes: Cas’s eyes dark and burning beneath him; his pink lips darkened to red from kissing and slick with spit; his body sweaty and gorgeous. The delicious scent of rain on dry earth, the air after a lightning strike, bites of ripe apple that burst in the mouth was strong in his nose and, now perfecting it, those black wings had flared out, making Cas all the more glorious, and beautifully desecrated by Dean’s hand.

The grace that swirled between them began to fill every pore on his body, and he felt himself start to let go, let the orgasm fill and carry them over that edge. He was barely aware of his spilling into Cas, or Cas splashing cum between them, because the grace had formed an infinite loop between them, a moebius figure linking them, until, right before they came, Cas reached up and grabbed his right shoulder with his hand.

It felt like something snapped into place, like something that had been missing his whole life was suddenly there. It wasn’t painful, or awful, but the grace flared around them, and he knew he had cried out. He only vaguely heard something breaking, and Cas’s own wrecked cry, so intense was the moment. And then, just like a puppet whose strings were cut, he collapsed on top of Cas with a low moan.

It might have been seconds, but it felt like decades, holding on to Cas, gasping and shuddering together, the bone-melting sensation of their orgasm surprising both of them. They slowly came to their senses, sharing kisses and whispering adorations.

“Will it always be like that?” Cas asked quietly, carding back Dean’s hair with both hands, practically holding up his head. Dean dipped his head down and kissed him, softly but deeply.

“Holy fuck, I hope so,” he replied, kissing him back.

The pleasantries came to an abrupt stop when the door slammed open and Bobby stormed in, shotgun first, flipping on the lights. “What the unholy _hell_ is going on in here,” he bellowed, and then he caught sight of Dean and Cas, naked and in a compromising position and staggered back as if he had been punched. “Fucking hell, boy!” He hollered, his eyes shut and covered with his free hand.

Dean went bright red from the tips of his toes to the top of his ears, and Cas covered them with his wings. “Bobby,” he shouted (although it sounded more like a petulant whine), “KNOCK FIRST!”

“ _Are you shitting me, ya idjits?_ I heard windows explode at 3AM and I’m just supposed to pretend it's nothing?” He snarled, his hand still over his eyes. “Put some damn clothes on, and you and your boyfriend can come downstairs and discuss how this was not exactly the _best time_ to have sex!”

From inside the feather cocoon, Dean quietly said, “Yes, Bobby.”

Bobby apparently didn't hear him and snarled,“ _What did you say?_ ”

“I said ‘YES, BOBBY’,” he yelled back.

The door shut with a resounding bang, and Dean breathed out a sigh of relief. “Cas, although that was mind-blowingly hot sex, please tell me we aren’t going to blow out the windows and alert everyone in a two-mile radius every time we fuck.” He paused to smirk down at the confused and wide-eyed angel. “Because, let’s face it… that’s going to be very awkward for them when it happens several times a day.”

Cas grinned up at him, and their bond vibrated with his internal chuckling. “We should find out,” he whispered, knocking his forehead lightly against Dean’s.

Dean dropped a kiss on his lips and said, “Definitely. But now we need to deal with Bobby…and that whole can of awkward.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment and tell me how I did with the whole sex scene there.


	19. The Law of Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gordon gets a visit. Crowley makes a deal. Meg is impatient. Bobby has to have _The Talk_ and resents every moment. Some of Cas's reasons come to light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, yeah... normal chapter. More closure next chapter. There's a prequel in the works with John and Mary. There's a sequel also in the works, because I'm not done with this 'Verse or this story, but this part/story is looking to close up within the next 5 or so chapters. (Though it doesn't look like it.)
> 
> Warnings: Um, minor character death. Some light torture. Perhaps some of what might be construed as homophobia. 
> 
> Bestiary at the end, as always. 
> 
> Title comes from GRIMM S3 E18.
> 
> (Yeah, I literally have no excuse except the Bobby part was making me crazy and I couldn't quite get it to where I wanted.)

 

 

> _We'll carry on, we'll carry on,_   
>  _And though you're dead and gone, believe me,_   
>  _Your memory will carry on, we'll carry on,_   
>  _And in my heart, I can't contain it,_   
>  _The anthem won't explain it,_
> 
> _And while that sends you reeling,_   
>  _From decimated dreams,_   
>  _Your misery and hate will kill us all,_   
>  _So paint it black and take it back,_   
>  _Let's shout out loud and clear,_   
>  _Defiant to the end we hear the call,_
> 
> _To carry on, we'll carry on,_   
>  _And though you're dead and gone, believe me,_   
>  _Your memory will carry on, we'll carry on,_   
>  _And though you're broken and defeated,_   
>  _Your weary widow marches,_
> 
> _On and on we carry through the fears,_   
>  _Disappointed faces of your peers,_   
>  _Take a look at me,_   
>  _'Cause I could not care at all,_
> 
> _Do or die, you'll never make me,_   
>  _Because the world will never take my heart,_   
>  _Though you try, you'll never break me,_   
>  _We want it all, we wanna play this part,_
> 
> _Won't explain or say I'm sorry,_   
>  _I'm unashamed, I'm gonna show my scar,_   
>  _Give a cheer for all the broken,_   
>  _Listen here, because it's who we are,_
> 
> _I'm just a man, I'm not a hero,_   
>  _Just a boy who wants to sing his song,_   
>  _Just a man, I'm not a hero,_   
>  _I don't care..._   
>  _~[My Chemical Romance, Welcome To The Black Parade](http://youtu.be/kDWgsQhbaqU)_

**NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK **  
****

Gordon woke up to a thunderous headache. His face throbbed dully, probably because of medication. He groaned, the smell of disinfectant deep in his nose, and he could still feel the low-pulsing ache in his side. The persistent and rhythmic beeping near his head felt like nails being driven into his head and he groaned fitfully. Where the hell am I?

“Well, seems like sleeping beauty is awake.”

The low, silky voice forced him to open his eyes, and he blearily peered into the foggy white that swam in his vision. When things started to solidify, he realized he was in a bright white hospital room and the beeping noise was the set of machines they had connected to him. He eyed them warily and looked towards the man again.

“Oh, OH, there we go. You can focus. Right here.”

Gordon’s eyes focused reluctantly on the man standing next to his bed. The riot of dark curls and the faintly amused gray eyes were not at all familiar, but he felt like he should know who the person was. He was wearing a fine dark gray suit jacket, none of the off-the-rack crap most people made do with, over a striped blue shirt that obviously some fine material, as it glowed faintly under the light. “W-who’re you,” he rasped out, his throat dry. The effort made him cough, which wracked his body with low-level, throbbing pain.

“Indeed, that is a good question,” the man said slowly and with obvious amusement. He had an accent, one Gordon couldn’t place. “Mais, j’ai une autre question… peux-tu me répondre...?”

Gordon shook his head slightly, “I...can’t speak French.”

A light, mocking laugh bubbled out of the man, and he strolled casually to the small rolling tray and poured out a bit of water from the ubiquitous salmon-pink hospital pitcher. He walked back and put the cup to Gordon’s lips, the heavy silver ring on his finger catching the light. “Ah, you Americans. I don’t know why you think you can run the world when most of you don’t even speak a second language. Honestly, it’s quite embarrassing, if you ask me.”

Gordon tried to glare at the man, but sipped the water. It was like nirvana to his parched throat.

“So, let’s try this again.” The man pulled the cup away from Gordon’s lips and smiled amicably. “I’m going to ask you a question, and you’re going to answer it, all right?”

He replaced the cup on the tray and gingerly took a seat on the hospital chair. “Where is the angel?”

Gordon coughed again and rasped out, “Who are you?”

The man arched a dark eyebrow, still amused and looking like, if he weren’t, Gordon would definitely regret it. “Well, now, I’m called many things. But since I’m in the United States, I suppose titles are useless. Thus, you can call me Renard. Eric Renard.”

Gordon struggled to think. The name was annoyingly familiar, like he should know it. He swallowed hard, his throat protesting, and he said, “I don’t know what happened to the angel. Jody said something that paralyzed it, and then I locked him in a circle of Holy Flame like we were instructed.” He paused to eye the cup of water, and the man nodded encouragingly while he stood up and pushed the whole bed tray towards Gordon. He again took his seat, elegantly crossing his legs, and waited patiently as Gordon swallowed more water. “Then that older Grimm came at me, and I had to defend myself.”

“The older Grimm?”

“Yeah, older guy, baseball cap… he moved fast for a man with a paunch.”

The gray eyes narrowed and it was obvious displeasure was now curling his lips down. “I see. And then?”

Gordon took another sip to cool his throat. “Jody tried to intervene, but the guy knocked her out. The Reaper who had joined us had rammed the SUV through the house, and she had taken some damage from that. But then that guy whacked her with the butt of his shotgun, knocking her out.” Dark eyes avoided gray as he quietly said, “I don’t know if she’s alive. The Reaper failed to do his job and the younger Grimm came out and they two timed me.”

Gordon could feel the incredulous eyeing of his face, and he fought down a blush. “So you just ran away? _Without_ the angel?”

“I was outnumbered, and if a Reaper couldn’t deal with a Grimm, how was I going to handle two?” He mumbled defensively.

The man stood up and the air around him was icy cold. “So you left the angel there. And god knows what those Grimms have done with it since…”

“I-I’m sorry.” He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. He was pretty sure Jody was dead, and he had almost died. Wasn’t that enough?

“Yes, I’m sure you are.” The icy air did not at all melt when he smiled. “Well then, I’m certain you’ll soon not be in any pain at all.”

The man, Eric, turned to leave the room, and, just visible outside, Gordon could see some other Verrat agents in the hall. One of them threw him a pitying look, and said loudly enough, “As you wish, your highness.”

_Your highness...wait? Is he the Prince?_

Three dark suits walked in, all of them woging into Hundjäger, and the shortest one said, “Sorry brother,” as he took out a gun with a silencer. Gordon tried to get out of the bed, but the bullets hit him squarely in the head with two soft thunks and he fell into a bloody heap on the floor, the machines attached to him toppling over the bed and their alarms going off shrilly.

The shortest one looked down at the crumpled figure and said, “Get me Sokolowski.”

The oldest guy looked surprised and woged back. “Irv? In Chicago? Lucas, you _know_ he doesn’t like working with the Family. Are you sure you don’t want to bring in someone else?”

Lucas woged and his dark eyes narrowed. “He’s got connections. Also, get Robert Singer on the phone. He’s got some explaining to do.”

“He’s not going to talk.”

Lucas shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Oh, and tell Sokolowski to tap Sharille for this job. They need to track down the damn angel before the Prince loses his temper on all of us.”

He walked out and Lucas motioned towards the body with his gun, the annoying and persistent alarm blaring from the machines still piercing the air. “Clean that up. Bury him somewhere deep. No one’s going to miss him any way.”

 

**OUTSIDE CASA GRANDE, **ARIZONA**  — 7PM**

Crowley stood at the edge of the carnival and eyed the commotion. There were more people than he would have thought. Then again, it was relatively cheap entertainment in a short distance compared to a trip into the sprawl that was Mesa-Tempe.

His demon eyes could spot the energies of a Wesen, and he released a low, impressed whistle at the number traveling in this carnival. Kehrseite-Schlich-Kennen roamed among the beasts, but he had no idea how Wesen could interact that closely with humans. Humans were foolish and unreliable. They were easily bribed. Kehrseite-Schlich-Kennen were dangerous to the existence of Wesen, yet here they were.

He took a drag of his cigar, allowing the smoke to linger in his mouth before he slowly released it. _Cigars_ , he thought, _are such a wonderful delicacy. Cuban cigars legitimately rolled on the thighs of dark virgin beauties tasted even better._

There was, of course, a ward on the place. It was the only reason he hadn’t just strolled in and made his way. He had looked at it and could see it was rather new. Which made sense, as there was the niggling stench of demon in the air, and demons were nasty little buggers that stunk up the furniture and left a scent trail like an egg-obsessed, farting old bugger.

Wasn’t much he could do about the wards from here; couldn’t touch them. But that didn’t generally stop the King of the Crossroads from accomplishing things.

A sticky-faced child was wandering by parentless, and Crowley smiled. “Oi, cherub! C’mere a minute. Old Uncle Crowley wants a mo’ with ye.”

The child must have been around seven, obviously way too young to be wandering the place alone. “C’mon now,” he cajoled, beckoning with his free hand. “Ah look! I’ll pass ye a fiver if ye come here! Imagine the candy apple ye can buy with it!”

He pulled a five-dollar bill out of his pocket and waved it at the sugar-driven waif. Like a crack addict, the kid moved closer, instinctively staying within the boundary.

“What you want, mister,” he asked.

Crowley eyed the child. He was wearing a Captain America tshirt and shorts, with some sort of superhero-covered sandshoe. His shock of blonde hair and the skin around the light brown eyes were slightly tinged with blue, which could be explained away by the cotton candy he was holding onto that looked like it had once been the size of his head, and was now the size of a gooey, melted softball.

“C’mon kiddo! I just need ye to do one little thing for me… just one small thing for yer old Uncle Crowley.”

The towheaded boy-child eyed him warily, rubbing absently with his gooey blue hand at the rivulet of snot that had trickled out his right nostril. Crowley worked at not reacting and just murmured, “Oh yes, aren’t yer parents just so proud of ye, little man. C’mon. It won’t hurt and I won’t even get near you.”

“Not s’posed to talk to stang’rs,” the kid said suddenly. His goopy ex-cotton candy finally gave into gravity and tilted off the wilted paper cone that had been mysteriously holding it up. The kid watched it fall with a modest plop that was drowned by the myriad of noises from the carnival, and toed the now-dirt covered former confectionery with an Avenger-armored shoe. Now, the sniffles began in earnest, as full-on waterworks started to build.

“No, no, no… lookie here, kid.”

He waved his hand and, where once was a cigar, a new giant ball of cotton candy popped into existence. It smelled disgusting to the demon, but he schooled his expression into a winning smile. “C’mon now… cotton candy? A fiver? Ye just gotta erase one wee thing for me.”

The kid slowly made his way over, eyes glued to the promise of fluffy candy goodness. He reached for the candy, and Crowley snatched it out of reach. “Nuh uh uh,” he cooed. “Go wipe one of yer sticky, snot fingers through that mark over there, and the candy’s yours.”

The kid gave him a suspicious, narrow-eyed look, and Crowley had to give it to the wee rug rat that he was a hard sell. Harder than most men he had cajoled in his day. “That one? The squiggly line?”

“Yes, that’s the one. Just… wipe a finger through so it’s broken, okay?”

The kid paused. “Give me the five now, the candy after.”

“ _Why you **little** …_” Crowley closed his eyes to regain some sanity and handed over the five. “Fine. Now get on it!”

The kid looked over the five dollar bill as if to make sure it was real, and then took the two steps to the sigil and swiped at it, breaking the anti-demon barrier. Crowley had his suspicions that wasn’t going last long. He handed the brat the candy and tousled his hair. “And when yer dead and in Hell, tell’em to call me over. I’ll bring ye over to sales. You’ll make… a killing.”

The kid just looked confused, but Crowley chortled at his own joke and walked inside the grounds. _Time to meet the mastermind._

He strolled up the small walkway between the tents, the back always so much more creepy than the midway. Of course, he was the King of the Crossroads, so that meant little to someone like him. He was the thing that went bump in the night, if you were even lucky enough to get a bump from him, he reasoned with a chuckle.

He followed his nose to where the stench of demon and ash was strongest, and found himself next to a caravan of disputable age, with the label “Ringmaster” pasted onto the side. A disassembled cage was propped against it, and he investigated it closely, noting the ash that still faintly coated the bottom. The stench of demon had sunk into the wood, though, so it was obvious what it had been holding.

That being done, he strolled up to the caravan’s door and knocked briskly, eyeing sigils above the door and windows with some annoyance. Manky bastard had made sure his hide was safe. A good idea, considering the game he was playing with: angels and demons weren’t the same as a doe or a boar. There were consequences.

A burly fellow in black opened the door, his golden eyes narrowed in the dim light of the caravan. He looked down at Crowley and, suspiciously asked, “Can I help you?”

Crowley smiled at him and took calculated step back. “Ringmaster Hedig, right? The question is, mate, can I help _you_?”

A questioning frown burrowed between those heavy brows and, without thinking, he took a step out of the caravan. “What do you mean, help me? What could you possibly help me with?”

Crowley grinned and said, “Well, I heard from an...associate… that ye lost two of yer top attractions.”

He retracted himself another step casually, smiling amiably. The guy, vaguely nervous and faintly curious, took a full step out of the caravan. “Did you hear that, now? From whom?”

Crowley grinned. “Ah, mate. Privileged information, y’know. But how about you and me have a bit of a chat, eh?”

Like that, the Ringmaster found himself trussed with a sack over his head. There was a snap of fingers, a low, throaty chuckle, and Crowley removed the sack. The room was a favored storage facility he kept for occasional mischief-making purposes. There was a full rack of torture implements and two chairs. He had dressed for the occasion: full regalia of tail and horns out on display. Most demons walking the human world kept them as silent at a fart in church, but now… _now_ Crowley knew they worked to his advantage. He grinned maliciously at the man, who had blanched and reared back in his seat.

“NO. _I had warding!_ I’ve been very careful to make sure it’s been up!”

“Got yerself a tamed Hexenbiest, do ye?” He took a seat across from his new, very-sweaty friend. “Only works if ye stay inside, ye knob.”

His tail swished back and forth behind him and he chuckled. “Well, enough foreplay!” He leaned in and looked the Ringmaster in the eye. “Where’s the sword?”

The man’s eyes flew wide, and he unintentionally woged, growling at the demon. “I don’t have to answer to some demon scum,” he snarled, his leonine lips curling around his fangs.

“Tsk tsk… and Löwen are supposed to be such noble creatures.” He slapped the Wesen with his tail, laughing when it caught him by surprise. “Now, Hedig… that’s yer name, right?” Crowley continued without checking. “I understand ye had a demon and an angel warded and kept in yer little… menagerie. I know ye treated them both abominably, and that’s something coming from a demon.”

He leaned in again, just out of snapping range, and asked, “So, Hedig… I prefer to make this _very_ painful and long lasting, but, alas, I’m under a bit of a time crunch and require the goods immediately.”

He stood and smirked down at the man. “I have no difficulty in removing each and every tooth in yer silly leonine head. In fact, it may improve yer general looks and demeanor, given that Löwen are such nasty tempered buggers. So, why don’t ye give me the sword, or I will hurt you?”

“You’ll hurt me any way,” Hedig snarled out in a muted roar. He struggled in his bond, Crowley pulled a knife off the rack and nicked him under his jaw. The smell of fear and blood grew strong in the small room as he carved a small line down the Ringmaster’s chest, cutting easily through the dark cloth like a hot knife through butter. The Löwen growled and snarled, trying to escape, and Crowley stabbed him shallowly in the chest. Hedig gasped, and glared at him, although he stank of fear now.

Crowley chuckled. “How about I give ye my word? A deal, if ye will. Give me the sword, and I won’t bother ye.” His dark eyes narrowed and the smirk became cruel. “But fuck me over and I will make ye the most buggered son in all of creation.”

Hedig talked.

 

**LAS VEGAS, NEVADA**

Meg was sick and tired of waiting. She had rallied a new demon crew, a few slightly smarter demons who could handle a decision...but not go completely independent. A good minion had to do that: always bend to her will, but not wield too much of their own.

Red had reported that Guy had flitted out of the office for some reason, as in portal-use, not door-use exiting. He had disappeared, probably on a job somewhere. If he was reporting to Crowley, she was going to eviscerate him and chew on his guts.

She had changed back into the tight jeans, printed tee, and her boots. She strolled without a care into FeLottie’s Event Planners.

FeLottie’s was situated inside the MGM Grand, with bright pink neon signs and huge photos of happy couples in romantic venues getting married or having bachelor parties. The faint irony of women in booty shorts popping out a huge cake and the happy couples getting married apparently had been missed by Guy. The interior was also white and pink, which made Meg want to hiss, but she contained herself as she strolled up to the reception desk.

The bright-bottle blond manning the desk looked up through hipster eyeglasses, her royal blue silk jacket over a bright lemon camisole. Her simple cosmetics made Meg sneer, reminding her of Cecily, hating the bright outfit in the bright atmosphere that practically reeked of light and love.

She smiled politely, her eyes flicking to crossroad demon red, and asked, “Can I help you?”

“Where’s Guy? I need to speak to him.”

The demon (her sparkly silver name plate said “Gwen Wright”) nodded as if it were the most important question ever. “I see. Yes. Um, he’s currently out until tomorrow. He was summoned.”

“Summoned?”

The aura of professional airhead around “Gwen” dissipated for a moment and she firmly said, “Crossroads Demon. It happens. We do have our off days here and we have quotas to fill.”

Meg stared down at the woman-shaped demon with vague distaste and flicked her eyes to black. She slowly leaned over the desk, smiling softly. “Y’know,” she said mildly, “I do realize that here it’s hard to recognize who you’re dealing with in the big bad world, thanks to meat suits, but I’m not fucking around here.” She gripped the demon by the artistically messy blond braid sharply, and yanked her forward, making her gasp. “Tell that little ass toad that if he doesn’t contact me soon, he and I will have a come-to-Jesus party and he won’t like the games. Got it?”

Gwen writhed in her grasp. “Got it! Got it!”

Meg released her with a snap of her wrist. “Good. I’ll be at my meat suit’s apartment.” She took a pen off the top of Gwen’s desk and scribbled her number across the entire messages book in huge, bold numbers.

She walked out without looking back.

 

**SIOUX FALLS, SOUTH DAKOTA —  SINGER AUTO SELF-SERVICE SALVAGE YARD — 3AM**

Bobby walked downstairs, rubbing his hands over his face. That had been the _last thing_ he had ever wanted to see in his life, and considering what he _had_ seen in his life, that was saying a lot. He tried to hold in a shuddering breath, as he randomly thought about how Karen would have handled it, and the pain was too fresh, too new for him to think about. He stomped to the kitchen, trying to figure out where he was going to get enough glass for the whole second floor, but then _fuck it_ because the bottom floor was a mess too, with the damn SUV just parked inside the kitchen like it had business there.

He tried not to look at Karen as he passed her, not sure he could make it to the kitchen, but he persevered. He glared at the truck, kicked the table back into place, the two chairs Dean had been using had been knocked under it, and he pulled those back up. He’d tell Dean to get the other chairs when he came down.

He pulled the kettle out and started heating some water.

And then he sat down to wait.

He didn’t even know how to breach this topic. He wasn’t sure how he was going to address it. He was no angel (HA!) when it came to interspecies sex and love, but he at least knew what he was getting into. There was too much lore and not enough facts to make him feel safe. And although he knew Dean was an excellent judge of character, he had 40-plus years of life experience and more than twenty of those in creature hunting, all of which made it hard for him to believe that anything that damn powerful was harmless. Even worse, it was technically still a baby monster.

He huffed out a sigh, wondering if he needed to tell John, and those years of life experience told him that John would be furious, not only at Dean for having sex with a male, but a _male creature_. Well, if he had been a _human_ man, maybe the news would have been easier. As it was, it was power housed in a man _shape_.

He mentally cursed every deity he could name off the top of his head that he was stuck talking birds and bees with an 18-year old boy and an Angel of the Lord. Could it be any more mortifying?

He heard a small noise and watched as Dean and Castiel slowly approached, Dean looking terrified but his face suffused with a blush so deep, it was a wonder he hadn’t passed out from blood loss to everywhere else. Behind him, the angel calmly followed, not looking remotely repentant and, if Bobby was any judge, a tad too pleased with himself.

That made him nervous.

They edged around Karen, as if they thought he was going to attack them for going near her — rightly, he supposed — and Dean uneasily settled into the kitchen chair like he expected Bobby to attack him and he could fly out of reach. Bobby eyed the angel, and wondered if that wasn’t really an option.

The quiet stretched between them ominously, Bobby waiting for Dean to break, Dean determined _not_ to break. But Bobby was an old hand at outlasting Dean, and he ignored the low whistle of the kettle as the water finally started to heat up and just stared at the now-sulking young man.

To his surprise, the angel broke first.

“We apologize. We didn’t know it would be like that.” The gravelly voice was soft and repentant. Dean flashed him a betrayed look, and Castiel frowned and shook his head minutely.

“You didn’t know…?” Bobby repeated slowly, and nearly missed the low whisper of, “It was fucking awesome,” from under Dean’s breath. He squeezed his eyes shut and wished he had a mental squeegee because he really had not needed that on top of the image of Dean’s bare ass with two hairy-man legs draped over his shoulders.

“I’m getting too old for this shit,” he muttered, and ran a hand over his face as he stood to turn off the now-howling kettle.

He got out some mugs, got out some tea bags, and poured them all some tea. He put the mugs in front of them, and retook his seat. He waited but Dean didn’t say anything else, and some part of him was deeply relieved. He played with the stringed tag on the tea bag and looked over at the standing angel. His bright blue eyes peered back guilelessly, and Bobby said, “What’s the game, Feathers? There’s something you’re not saying.”

Bobby didn’t miss the slight flutter of eyelashes that the angel tried to suppress, his hands now in front of him, where he was wringing them slightly. “I do not understand,” he said slowly. “We apologized.”

“First of all, _you_ apologized,” Bobby said, not even dropping the tag to point at the flying menace. “This idjit over here hasn’t said shit. Second of all, I’m not referring to your blowing out the windows, although that is a bit of an inconvenience, I’ll admit.” Blue-grey eyes squinted. “What I mean is, even if this dumbass over here doesn’t get it, I can see there’s something going on. What. Is. It?”

Castiel bit his bottom lip and looked over at Dean, who shrugged and held out his left arm, rolling up the sleeve. As he did, a raised, red hand print was revealed, and Bobby sucked in his breath. “What the hell is that?”

  
“Not Hell,” Castiel said sharply. “Heaven!”

Bobby just out of his seat and walked over to Dean’s left side, pushing the hovering angel over with his shoulder, and grabbing Dean’s arm so he could get a better look. “I don’t give a shit. Do I look like a give a shit? No! What I give a shit about is what the hell is that and what’s it doing on Dean?”

Then it happened again, where green eyes sought out blue, and a conversation seemed to be going on without him, until he snapped, “OUTSIDE VOICES, BOYS.”

Dean coughed awkwardly, like having his arm manipulated like that wasn’t bad enough, and said, “Cas was telling me what it was in detail. He wants to, as he said it, ‘allay your fears’ or something.” He chuckled. “I don’t even know what the fuck ‘allay’ means.”

“It means to ‘reduce’ or ‘put to rest.’” He shook his head. “Dean, haven’t you ever read a book written before 1980?”

“Not voluntarily.” He deadpanned.

Bobby felt his lips compress angrily. Finally, growled out, “Just tell me what he said, genius.”

Dean huffed out another breath, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment, “He said… he said it was his ‘mating mark.’”

“Mating mark?!” Bobby’s eyes got round and he glared at the angel. No wonder the little fucker (literally) looked so pleased with himself. “Dean, does this mean you’re gay married to this angel or something?”

Castiel’s eyes were possessively on Dean, and Bobby was acutely aware that he was watching Bobby’s hand come near the mark. He was still unprepared, however, when Cas’s wings suddenly popped out and flared. They filled the room, puffed up and trembling to look dominant and terrifying. Electric storms danced in his eyes, and Bobby was keenly reminded of the flattened car when the smell of ozone started to burn in his nose. Cas growled, “ _Mine! Barsherter! **Mine!**_ ”

_Barsheter. Wait… I… where do I know that from?_

Cas hissed again and Dean said, “Whoa! It’s fine, Cas! He’s not going to do anything!”

Bobby could feel the buildup of power in the room; it tickled him under the skin and he released Dean’s arm and took a step away. “I suppose that answers that question,” he mumbled, stumbling back to his seat.

Dean and Cas did that staring thing again, and, at the end, Cas nodded slowly and put away his wings. Dean turned a smiling face on Bobby, apology in his eyes.  “Bobby, I’m not sure exactly what happened, but he keeps saying ‘barsheter’ so I figure that’s got to mean something.” He shrugged. “He doesn’t want to explain it, or...maybe...he can’t.”

Green eyes flicked over to the angel, and the angel, swear to God, shuffled uncomfortably, looking shifty as hell. Bobby sighed. “I’m going to go look up this ‘barsherter’ thing. You and chuckles here can clean up the kitchen.”

Dean looked around at the devastated kitchen and looked like he swallowed the whine of complaint on his lips. The angel just watched Bobby leave, still looking kind of shifty.

He was in the middle of his Arabic dictionary when he heard Dean cussing up a storm. Not even 15 minutes had passed, and he yelled out, “Boy! Do I have to go back in there?”

More cursing ensued, and Dean yelled back, “No! We’ve got it covered!”

 _Doesn’t sound like it._ Bobby decided to check up on them, the dictionary still in hand. He had put all the books and extra furniture in the basement for safe keeping, and the fact the boys were loud enough to reach down there was worrisome.

He walked into the kitchen to find it pristine. The SUV was gone, the glass was gone and replaced like new, and there was no giant hole in the wall. Dean and Cas were standing in the middle of the room having what looked like a small argument, and it looked like Cas’s stoicism was winning, if the aggravation and frustration on Dean’s face was any indication. His sleeve was pulled up and he’s shoving the burned handprint into Castiel’s face.

“Something you care to share with the class, idjits?”

A startled face turned to him, while the angel’s expression remained placid and knowing. Dean shot the angel a look and said, “No. Just...clarifying a few things and… uh… cleaning up?”

The slight lilt at the end told Bobby that Dean was lying. He looked around the kitchen again, a headache building behind his exhausted eyes. “Looks clean enough to eat off of,” he said, finally. He waved at the room. “Can you bring up all my shit so it looks like it should?”

In a blink, all his shit was back and in place. _Well, at least he’s good for **something**._ He’s being ungracious, but, right now, he didn’t give a shit. Those stormy blue eyes were staring at him, unblinking, and just unnatural. It made him nervous. He hated being nervous.

“Dean, why can’t he speak to me like he does you,” he asked, not dropping his gaze.

He heard Dean sigh. “He said it’s because he’s not good at English.”

“He can speak a thousand languages, but not English?” _That’s_ straining incredulity. “Doesn’t that seem passing odd to you?”

And there’s the tell. Dean licked nervously at his bottom lip, his eyelashes fluttering down to shutter his expression. “He says he can only read and write. That he left Heaven before he was supposed to.”

_Also more than passing odd._

Bobby glared harder at the angel, gently closing the dictionary (not that he was getting anywhere), and said, “Castiel, if that’s even your name, you’d better cough up your purpose down here right now, or so help me…” He doesn’t even know what he could possibly do against an Angel of the Lord, but by God, he’d figure something else. Preferably something painful.

Castiel straightened up, his posture militaristic, and poised. His hands are loose at his sides, but Bobby’s no fool: the creature has training.

“I came to find Dean,” he said, the faint smell of ozone in the air. “I came to find Barsherter.”

“He said it meant, ‘destiny’ when I asked him,” Dean added, apparently not at all affected by the buildup of energy in the room.

Meanwhile, Bobby felt like he was a nanosecond from being smited. Destiny can mean a lot of things, but the angel already looked like he was just about done with them. _Still…  I’ve lost everything that matters any way, so what the hell?_

“What does that mean?” He doesn’t take his eyes off the smoldering angel.

“I was made for him. He was made for me.” Castiel’s chin lifted a tad, and Bobby noted it. Finally, Castiel said, “הַנְּפִלִים”

Bobby blinked, feeling stunned, his mouth opening and closing aimlessly. _Did he just say what I thought he said?_ His mind whirled as he tried to piece together the puzzle: an angel, his focus on Dean, the so-called mating mark. After a moment, he managed to choke out, “Did you say ‘ _nephilim_ ’?”

Dean frowned. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Because it _is!_ Nephilim were half-human, half-angel creatures that God punished by flooding the planet!” He pulled off his hat and ran his hand through his hair. “I don’t… I can’t even… “ He threw his hat on the ground and growled at Dean, “You moron! You _did_ gay marry an angel and he’s wanting to have wee angel babies with your dumb ass!”

Done, Bobby threw his hands in the air and stormed out. “I can’t deal with this shit right now! Fix the rest of the house, while you’re at it! I’m going to bed!” 

* * *

When Bobby woke up the next morning, only on three hours of restless sleep, he saw that Karen’s body had been moved and the blood in the floor and couch removed. He started swearing and yelled, “Dean! You idjit! What have you done?!”

He stormed into the kitchen, but it was also spotless, with a note on top of the table. He picked it up and read it, sighing heavily.

 

 

> Bobby,
> 
> Man, I’m sorry about everything. I didn’t know it was going to go south like that, and I definitely didn’t think Karen would take the biggest hit. I didn’t mean to bring this into your home.
> 
> Cas and I will have left by the time you’ve read this. Please don’t try and find us. Cas is really good at hiding, he says. I have no idea, but we’re going to disappear for a while.
> 
> Please tell dad not to worry about us. As soon as the heat is off, we’ll come back.
> 
> Just so you know, I did talk to Cas, but he says he doesn’t understand much of why he’s here, only that he was looking for his basherter (Cas spelled that) and that I was him. He said it was “Heaven’s plan” and a bunch of stuff that sounds serious. I guess I just need to figure it out. Yeah, and I think you’re right. I think I gay married the angel without knowing it. Cas and I had a long talk about that, but apparently there’s no take backs in Heaven. He didn’t even realize how far having sex was going to mark us, and I believe him.
> 
> (I seriously didn’t mean for you to catch us, but, man, it was worth it. Best ever.)
> 
> Please, please, please do not tell my dad. I will tell him myself. And then please be sure to give me a hunter’s funeral for after he kills me. Also, tell Sammy I might have gay married an angel, but he’s still a girl.
> 
> I’m very sorry.
> 
> Dean
> 
> PS: Cas moved Karen into a casket inside the SUV for easy transport. It’s made of cedar, so a hunter’s funeral is doable. I’m so sorry I brought this on you. Karen was like a mother to me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SMALL NOTE: I'm not trying to be evasive, per se, with Cas. He doesn't know some things because he wasn't told, but he knows what he wants and that's making him obsessive. There'll be more info next chapter. I just wanted to clarify before people got all, "WTF? Why doesn't he know??" Let's just go with angels don't question orders for now... and I promise I'll get to it next chapter.
> 
> FRENCH TRANSLATION:  
> But I have another question... can you answer me..?
> 
> BESTIARY:  
> ERIC RENARD: The Crown Prince of the First Family in Austria, Captain Renard's older half-brother. 
> 
> Kehrseite-Schlich-Kennen: Humans who know about Wesen.
> 
> Löwen: Lion-type Wesen, known for their bad tempers, ferocity, speed, and strength. They are very cat-like, being able to make incredible leaps and are stealthy. Males have manes, which can indicate maturity and health. They are very resistant to damage, naturally aggressive, competitive, and violent. They are, however, capable of living among humans. (Hedig lives until he meet Nick in GRIMM.)


	20. Double Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets revealed. Dean and Sam talk. Meg v. Crowley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of the reason this took so long was that I was 1) blocked. 2) Sucked into the Timestamp. 3) Blocked.
> 
> After saying there were like maybe five chapters, I realized that I was pushing it if I made it past two. So the next chapter may be the last for THIS PART. Which I'm not trying to write a super huge story, but the thing with Cas is going to take up some space when combined with the next story line and... yeah... things are afoot.
> 
> Also, please read the timestamps for [Ch 10](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3439490) and ESPECIALLY [Ch 20](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3492044).

 

> _I'm gonna fight 'em off_  
>  _A seven nation army couldn't hold me back_  
>  _They're gonna rip it off_  
>  _Taking their time right behind my back_
> 
> _And I'm talking to myself at night  
>  Because I can't forget_  
>  _Back and forth through my mind_  
>  _Behind a cigarette_
> 
> _And the message coming from my eyes_  
>  _Says leave it alone_
> 
> _~[Seven Nation Army, White Stripes](http://youtu.be/0J2QdDbelmY)_

**VIENNA, AUSTRIA**

“Who did you find to replace that horribly inadequate creature?”

The silky tones did not completely hide the annoyance that lurked beneath the surface of his gentility. Lucas bowed and said, “I called on Irv Sokolowski in Chicago, your highness. He will be paired with another marechaussee, seeing as the Hundjäger are ineffective and we lost a Steinhandler in the process.”

“I see.” Eric Renard sat back in his seat, the leather chair making the faintest of sounds as he did. “And this...Grimm?”

“There’s been no word about him. Robert Singer has denounced any knowledge, claiming that the angel killed his wife and kidnapped his surrogate son.”

Renard steepled his fingers and observed Lucas’s reaction from over them. The official office was not one he used often, preferring his smaller and more personal one for most matters. “I suppose he would say that.”

His smile was wide and falsely jovial. “Now, Lucas. I know you are not the brightest of men, but even you have to know that the angel is invaluable to my plans. After all, it’s in our lore that an angel is what created Grimms to guard the unguardable.”

“I can hardly imagine what today’s technology could even accomplish with a viable sample of DNA. Or even harvesting its eggs… or sperm I suppose.” He turned to regard Lucas mildly. “Do you suppose they have sperm?”

Lucas looked nervous. “I’m… I’m uncertain your highness.”

Renard turned back to his steepled fingers. “Well, whatever. I suppose it doesn’t matter. The thing might even be our key to immortality! I mean, what makes it tick? It’s obviously not human, nor is it Wesen.”

Deep gray eyes peered into the possibilities, oblivious to all else. “I can’t wait to see it spread out before me like a dissected frog. I wonder if we can separate the wings and mount them? They’d look stunning across from my bed…”

“I’m unsure, your Highness.”

Impatience colored his words, as he said, “Of course you’re unsure, you fool. That’s the point. No one is sure. There’s too much religious foolishness and not enough fact. I want that thing cut into atoms, used to cure the common cold, and its wings to be inherited by my first born.” He sighed heavily. “Is that too much to ask?”

If Lucas privately thought that it was, he kept it to himself. 

* * *

 

 **Little Brother Interlude **—** Part 1** 

 

> “Hello? Dean?”
> 
> “SAM! Where are you?”
> 
> The sulky tone told him before Sam actually said, “Dad caught up to me. I’m with him. We’re somewhere in New Mexico and headed to Bobby’s to pick you up.”
> 
> Dean wasn’t sure what to say here. Obviously Bobby hadn’t told them anything, and he cautiously said, “Um, well, I’m not there any more.”
> 
> “What does that mean? Does Dad have to go look for you too?” The little shit’s voice sounded hopeful and Dean wanted to swear at him.
> 
> “Sam, is Dad with you?”
> 
> "He left me in the motel room and went to get some beer.” Of course. “Where are you?”
> 
> Dean paused to think, unsure what he needed to tell Sam. “I’m not at Bobby’s, but don’t tell Dad.”
> 
> He took a deep breath. _Here goes nothing_. “Sam, a lot of shit has happened, but there’s something I need you to do no matter what.”
> 
> Suspicious but hyperaware of Dean’s tone, Sam asked, “What? Because if it has to do with a girl… Oh my god, Dean! Did you knock someone up?”
> 
> _Funny he put it that way…_
> 
> “No, I haven't knocked anyone up, Samantha. Jesus.” He coughed and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “But… things happened at Bobby’s.” Another deep breath. “Sam… Karen’s dead.”
> 
> “WHAT?” A shuddering breath. “What are you talking about Dean? Dad didn’t tell me this! Bobby didn’t tell him anything! You’re lying!”
> 
> “Wish I was, little brother,” he said quietly. He waited, and sure enough there was the faint sound of Sam crying and trying to keep it quiet. “Some… things happened at Bobby’s… but Karen’s dead and I need you to do me a favor.”
> 
> A sniffling noise and then a muffled, “What?”
> 
> “I need you to stay with Bobby.” Soft snuffling. “Sam. I need you to focus. I know she was like a Mom to you too, but you need to focus on me for a minute.” Another deep breath. “Bobby’s alone and he’s not handling it well. I need you stay with him. Don’t tell Dad that I told you about Karen. Just… beg him to stay with Bobby.”
> 
> More muffled crying. Dean’s heart broke with every sniffle. “W-what about you, Dean? W-what am I s’posed to do?”
> 
> Deep sigh. “Sammy, I…” _Man up_. “Sam, it’s kind of my fault Karen died. I didn’t kill her outright, but I brought trouble to Bobby’s door, and it took her instead.”
> 
> “Dean…” The quiet accusatory tone hissed out at him through the phone. “What have you done?”
> 
> “A lot of things I regret. A couple I don’t.” Dean tried to come up with a way to explain Cas and failed. Miserably. “Look, just… I’m going to disappear for awhile and I’ll come find you. I promise. But, please, Sam… stay with Bobby. That old jackass won’t give anyone else the time of day.”
> 
> There was a long pause in which Sam’s tears could be heard, and finally a sharp, “Fine, Dean. But you’re explaining this to me later. _In detail._ ” Dean could imagine the epic bitchface aimed at him.
> 
> He chuckled fondly. “You got it, kiddo.”
> 
> “I’m not a child, jerk!”
> 
> “Whatever, bitch. Call me when you’re at Bobby’s and Dad’s gone, okay?”
> 
> More quietly. “Sure, I’ll do that.”
> 
> “I’m glad you’re back and safe, Sam.”
> 
> “Whatever.” *click*
> 
> “Why, that little…”

* * *

 

**LAS VEGAS, NEVADA**

Meg arrived at FeLottie’s with her asskicking boots on. She loved these pair of boots. They were steel toed.

She had a suspicion Guy had snitched on her, and Crowley was in on her prize hunt.

She strolled into the glittering store and walked past Gwen without even looking at her. There was a stuttered, “W-wait!” From behind her, but she just pushed into Guy’s office.

Sure enough, sitting at the desk, was Crowley.

He smirked and said, "Look who's late to the game? Who's a bad, little whore?"

“Crowley.” The word ripped out of her. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Crowley leaned back in the office chair. The office was a filigree nightmare, a combinations of fluffy white furniture, curlicue embellishments, fresh pink roses, and baby pink decor making it look like a flock of cupids had thrown up in the room. Finding the stout gremlin dressed in charcoal gray sitting in the cloud-white, wingback office chair was like finding a rat taking a dump in the middle of a popular restaurant, he was so out of place.

"Indeed, my wee tart, why would I be here?" He tapped the name plate on the desk. "Did you really think my minions would be more frightened of you than me?"

Meg's eyes flicked to black, her tail and horns emerging, her large wings inherited from her royal father flaring out in a dominance display. “You will bow to me, Crowley!”

Crowley, despite not being the daughter of a Prince of Hell, flicked his eyes to red and flashed out his accouterments as well. His horns and wings were much smaller (okay, so maybe only three feet of leathery darkness behind him) but he knew it wasn’t the size of the boat, but the motion of the ocean.

If only he had learned that while alive, but he had heartily enjoyed the addition three inches on his todger.

 _Or at least_ , he thought with an oily grin, _the barmaids certainly had_.

_Speaking of filthy little strumpets…_

“Now, ye trollop, why on earth would you need me to bow to you? Feeling insecure?” He raised his hand and uttered a incantation, and Meg flew backwards.

She caught herself, a hand and foot bracing against the floor while the force of the spell failed to push her back, her wings like dark leather sails behind her.

“Insecure,” she scoffed. “About a sad little goldfish who thinks he can handle a bigger pond? Dream on, asshole!” She pulled out a short sword that gleamed darkly and Crowley looked impressed.

“Well, daddy really lets you take out his toys, didn’t he?”

The short sword’s blade was slightly curved and gleamed black and oily in the pale room. Crowley wanted to whistle, he was that impressed. She had brought one of the notorious Muramasa wakizashi, occasionally given to humans because of its desire for blood and murder.

She smiled, and it looked a lot like the curve of the blade. “It’s an original, made by Sengo himself. Can’t beat that quality.” She shifted it slightly in the artificial light and Crowley could hear it hum.

Crowley smiled back, his own wings flaring defiance. “Indeed. Although some of us don’t need _daddy’s_ treasure vault to make us look intimidating.”

Meg scowled. “You could use every military and cursed piece in that vault and never be anything other than a filthy rat of a demon.”

He blew a kiss at her. “You say the sweetest things, and you’re not even getting paid.”

She grinned wolfishly. “I’ll feast on your innards and throw the rest to the ghouls.”

He grinned back and threw another curse at her, which she dodged to run at him. He fell back as she swiped at him, and she sneered. “I knew your bark was bigger than your bite.”

He grinned as she took another few swipes at him, barely escaping each one, and, while she was trying to sink a strike, he palmed his blade.

“You’re good,” he said, barely avoiding the hit. She swung just past him, and he stabbed her in the center of her gut. He smiled with satisfaction as her body convulsed and dark light lit her meatsuit from the inside out even as she slid off the angel blade. “But I’m Crowley.”

He looked down at Meg’s body and, after a while, Gwen peeked her head in. He smiled pleasantly at her. “Find Guy and tell him to clean up this mess.” She ducked out, and he examined the sword more closely, the needle-like blade slick with blood. “Light, powerful, and quash a demon with no muss and no fuss. I like this thing.”

Meg’s black wings and horns slowly disintegrated into ash as the lack of demonic energy to keep them on earth’s surface faded into nothing. Soon there was just a human body and a pile of sulfurous smelling ash on the white carpet.

He chuckled as he turned away from the mess. “Dead and gray looks marvelous on you darling. Now we just have to make sure daddy doesn’t find out who dispatched you.”

_If Azazel finds out, I’m dead as nails. And the great Lucifer will hang my hide on the wall. What to do, what to do…?_

* * *

**COUNCIL ROOM — HEAVEN**

 

> “Michael says it must be so.”
> 
> “But it seems so _cruel_ , Jophiel! Can we not just let them be?”
> 
> “Anael, your heart has always drifted towards humanity. Be careful you do not find yourself Fallen due to blasphemy.”
> 
> “How can it be blasphemy, when he is Castiel’s basherter?”
> 
> “The Winchesters have a greater role to play. Michael says it must be so.”
> 
> “But, Raphael, Father _chose_ Dean Winchester! Surely that must count for something?”
> 
> “Father chose Dean Winchester for the biggest destiny of all. You cannot deny destiny.”
> 
> “But… the Garden. _The nephilim!_ ”
> 
> “Not your concern. It will be collected and processed.”
> 
> “It’s a child, not a ** **—**** a ** **—**** _sheaf_ of wheat to be sown, collected, and milled!”
> 
> “Anael, the plan is sound. Once war begins, we will lose most of our numbers. We need the nephilim. They grow at a human rate with a great power we can use to our advantage.”
> 
> “Castiel never asked for this, Jophiel. Gabriel would have agreed with me.”
> 
> “Neither did Jesus. Yet here we are. And no one has seen Gabriel in a millennia, so it doesn’t matter.”
> 
> “You are all cruel. I disagree with this plan.”
> 
> “Your dissent is noted and has been put in your record. Now, go prepare a hold for Castiel. The time is near and Michael is impatient.”

* * *

**Little Brother Interlude **—** Part 2** 

 

> “Hey, Sammy.”
> 
> “Dean! Where have you been? Dad’s pissed.”
> 
> “Yeeeah… I imagine so. Um, did Bobby tell you anything?”
> 
> “No. Just that Karen died saving his life. He won’t talk about, at least not in front of me.”
> 
> *deep sigh* “I figured.”
> 
> _Pause_.
> 
> “When are you coming back, Dean? Dad’s left on a hunt already. Bobby said he’d get me into the school here, but if I’m only staying for a little while…”
> 
> “I don’t know, Sammy. I need to finish up here.”
> 
> “Don’t call me Sammy. My name is SAM.”
> 
> “Technically, your name is Samantha. I’ll call you by your first name when you get your period.”
> 
> “Ha ha. Very funny.”
> 
> “Let me tell you funny… I met these two guys who were brothers, right? But they’re Russian and noisy! Good guys. They showed me how to drink vodka straight without puking.”
> 
> “I don’t think that’s a skill you need.”
> 
> “You’re such a prude. Jesus. Any way, I gotta go. You’re okay, though? Even if things are rough?”
> 
> “I’m fine. I don’t think dad’s going looking for you, since Bobby told him to leave you alone.”
> 
> “Well, there’s some silver lining, any way.”
> 
> “Um, Dean? I was cleaning up Bobby’s library, and I found this letter on his desk. W—what does this mean, ‘gay married’? And, who’s ‘Cas’? I mean, you call him an angel and you used the word ‘basherter’ in here, and… Dean — what have you gotten yourself into?”
> 
> “Oh fuck my life. Did you find that? Fu— UGH. I’ll have to explain it later, but I literally can’t right now. I just… can’t.”
> 
> _Pause_.
> 
> “You gay married a male angel who says you’re his soul mate, didn’t you?”
> 
> _Pause_.
> 
> “Shut up, Sam. I’ll talk to you later.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Verse note: Demons can choose whether or not to show their wings, but only high ranking ones have wings of any serious interest. Most looked like leathery stubs. Same with horns.
> 
> There WAS a huge Cas/Dean section that was removed because of the TIMESTAMP (which I am BEGGING you all to read). I will get back to that next chapter.


End file.
